An Overanalytical Outlook

Running has its equal share of advocates and detractors. Some of my non-running friends find it to be needlessly tiring. Others seem to view it merely as a form of cardio, one component in a real athlete’s exercise routine. And unless you’re a marathoner or engaged in a race*1, people feel that it lacks the spirit of competition that defines most sports. In other words, they don’t see the point.

I’m hesitant to tell them the truth, that running puts me more in touch with reality. Enthusiasm for other sports are less abstract and don’t require an explanation or any existential rationale for participation. So if I’m ostensibly bats for running in the first place, I’m even kookier for trying to ascribe some value to it, a hobby that encourages one to isolate himself and but doesn’t force to compete or collaborate with others.

I guess it’s easy to pigeonhole things this way, at least in my case. I had abandoned sports sometime during middle school*2 and was basically inert throughout high school*3 and part of college. And when I finally decided to start moving again, I chose a sport that lacked the important social qualities of teamwork, competition, good sportsmanship, etc.

Running saved me the way reading did. Reading wasn’t really a hobby, initially, the way watching TV isn’t considered a hobby. I read to be entertained; a book’s sole purpose was to tell a good story. But as I read more, I realized how much of an impact these books had. Even the activity itself—the intense concentration on something, the need to ignore distractions—had a purpose. I was alone and yet I felt connected to the world around me, removed from the cage of my own mind.

To say I feel the same way about running sounds a bit pretentious, perhaps even disingenuous. During a run, when I reach the state where I’m not focusing intently on my own body, my mind tends to wander, but I’m not tangled up in petty concerns. And at other times, my mind is simply blank. Maybe I’m striving for something beyond the physical nature of sport, something more than just a ‘good run’ and/or good-day-at-the-gym sort of thing. I think I’m searching for that same redemptive power that literature offers, that tacit promise that I can escape myself.

In a sense, some might see me as running away from everything. But when I try writing about it, I feel like I’m running towards something. Maybe the next step is turning off my headphones and attuning my ears to what’s around me, to find out exactly what that thing is.

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*1 I’ve only raced one time since I started running, which was a quick 50 yard dash against Steve D. on Pine Swamp Road in Cumberland, RI. In an act of hubris, he smoked a cigarette after narrowly beating me at the end. This only reaffirmed my belief that I was a long distance runner.

*2 After failing to make to the North Cumberland Middle School basketball team.

*3 With the exception of Flag Football for three of those years (with the Original Gangstas, the K-Rex Struts, and the Reaganauts, respectively), where a greater emphasis was placed on fun instead of athletic prowess.