7-26-10: First Run In Central Park

I arrived at the northwest corner with my Nalgene in hand. Make sure to take it easy I thought to myself; it had been a week since my last run, and I ran very little over the previous six weeks. I was adopting a 'never too late to hop back on' sort of philosophy. So I hit play on my iPod, stretched a little, and headed south to start my six mile loop.

The stoney sounds of Best Coast played through my headphones. I tried to find an appropriate pace but could only concentrate on the heft of my water, so I dumped some out along the way. The trees helped block out the sun, which was already in weaker form that morning. I passed a chubby Hispanic guy running in street clothes, then an older woman in more athletic attire. The reawakening of my muscles boosted my confidence.

Well, sort of. My mind was occupied with non-running related things, most of them branching off a single fear: I was going to fail in New York. I felt like I had achieved a fair amount of success and that things were still going really well, but I figured the streak must end at some point. Maybe reading all that Schopenhauer had infected my thoughts. But I've been so accustomed to disappointment that perhaps I didn't want to get my hopes up.

I got to the southern tip of the park and dumped some of the water over my head. Bikers whizzed past me on either side even though the bike line was on my right. Somehow, I was still running, still feeling good. My body held together firmly. On my way towards the southeast corner, the data in my iPod switched over to Big Boi.

I tried summoning the words of that Schopenhauer dude, about how we're all fellow sufferers. I was lucky: besides the city of New York, I had my Columbia friends, a far less nebulous group, that I could identify and commiserate with. And yet it brought me no comfort. Far too absorbed in my own worries, other people's problems seemed difficult to comprehend, even if we were grappling with the same problems.

The warbled mouth sounds of "Shutterbug" kicked in. I picked up the intensity and smiled to myself. As I started to exert more control over my run, I felt more in control over everything else. That's the hubris of running, the delusion that one conquer anything, but it was enough to shake me of my nihilism. By being an active participant in my life, I knew I could stave off that despair.

I walked the last 1/4 mile. A light breeze danced over my body. My arm was a little stiff but no longer bogged down by my bottle. I forgot about the renewal power of a good run. It's akin to the catharsis of writing.