Born to Run (and run and run)

In faith that it would turn out well, my roommate, Christy bought me a present for running the marathon. It was a book (of course), one we've discussed and I've been recommended more times than I can count on all my toes (more later). Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall. It is the unceremonious blow-by-blow of one journalist's personal struggle with running that lead him so far outside himself, he eventually woke up one day in the secluded canyons of Mexico and ran a 50-mile race through the mountains with a bare-footed man, a bunch of Indians, a super-star, a scraggly burnt out ex-kick-boxing champ, and a couple of crazy college kids who blew off their finals to tag along.

Last Friday afternoon I took a bus to the train station where I caught the next train to the airport, traveling first to LA and then to Tucson, AZ where I spent the weekend with friends from high school, one of whom got married Saturday. Sunday I spent nine and a half hours either sitting in the airport or flying after which I again took a train and then a bus back to my home. In every spare moment, I read. Upon arriving home again, Christy asked me, "How was it?!" I stared back at her blankly, bleary eyed from so much travel; trying to make meaning from her words was like waking up from a dream- a dream of dark, mysterious canyons, dusty trails, and beautiful, grippy bare feet...

"Kristin, how was your trip?" I blinked a few times, grinned and then asked, "Which one?"

I have read about running before, and it has been a wonderful thing. Often I find myself chucking aside my copy of Once a Runner or Ultra-Marathon Man to pull on my Asics and rocket down the street, my mind swimming with possibility or determination. But I've always felt something else, too-- a disconnect. The accounts I read or the runners with whom I happily share ideas, trails and advice always leave me feeling displaced. No, I don't run to think out complex issues. No, I can't run when I'm mad to blow off steam. I run best when I'm full of joy, when I feel lit up inside by potential or connectedness to the world-- and its impossible to say which comes first: the connection or the running. I suppose it isn't always the same.

I coached with Girls on the Run for two seasons, and it was a lot of fun. Still, often I found myself listening to lovely women (fellow coaches) sharing heart-breaking stories of low or budding self-esteem, how running helped them to form a positive body image, gain confidence in their ability, etc, etc... And yeah, I resonate with that, but only to a point. Of course I've had insecurities, and sure, a great many of them revolve around my body, and yes, hell yes have I hoped that my body would one day morph into a tiny, rock-hard version of what it is now on account of all the miles and pounding I've logged. But the truth is, it hasn't. And most of the time, I love it anyway, and I'm happy with the way that I look. But the point is, if I was running to love myself or to be loved, I would have quit a long time ago. To be fair, my confidence and self-esteem probably have improved tremendously since I first took to the roads with the team my sophomore year, but such a ethereal and intangible sort of theory just isn't enough to get me out there day after rainy, windy, chilly day. And I'm honestly just not that thoughtful all of the time- running for me is more basic than all that. It's more animal, less higher being.

And I've tried being great too, but that side of things never got too tempting, since I never excelled all that much. As I mentioned above I recently read Once a Runner, the fictional account of a tremendously successful college athlete who put in 160 mile weeks just to hit a sub 4:00 once in his life on a little black oval. And on one hand I totally got him- I knew the similar love and hate of a hard workout, the drive and impulse of a team, the fatigue of two-a-days, of recovering from a long run with a morning run, then an 8 mile workout in the same twelve hour period. But obviously I lost him whenever he won. And that sadness that continuously characterized the experience of the champions within that story; I found it so uncomfortable as I finished the book. 'What was the point of fulfilling their goals?' I found myself asking- and 'Why, why, why were they so sad when it came?'

And though on one hand, I felt irritated with his scathing perspective of the Lesser Runner or the exuberantly chatty-and-effusive Poet Runner (this might be personal), I pitied him also. The burden of excellence is huge. And yeah, maybe sad at times, because who really knows why it is chased, just that it seems that one must if one can, attempt to run one pure, perfect mile, especially if it is one of the fastest in the world.

Though obviously enjoyable and often inspiring, reading about running also forces me into a little soul-searching. I'm constantly wondering why I run. Not just races or even once a day after work, but why do I run to bus stops, to work every morning, to the top of hills in the rain or the dark- not just when I'm late, but all the time. It's part instinct, part just a feeling of hugeness in my chest, but its also just a desire to unlock, and to go. When Jenn, one of the college students in the story, describes her feelings about running I finally feel my heart leap. I couldn't put it better myself: "'I never discussed this with anyone because it sounds pretentious, but I started running ultras [races longer than 26.2] to become a better person,' Jenn told me. 'I thought if you could run one hundred miles, you'd be in this Zen state. You'd be the f---ing Buddha, bringing peace and a smile to the world. It didn't work in my case-- I"m the same old punk-ass as before-- but there's always that hope that it will turn you into the person you want to be, a better, more peaceful person.

'When I'm out on a long run,' she continued, 'the only thing in life that matters is finishing the run. For once, my brain isn't going blehblehbleh all the time. Everything quiets down, and the only thing going on is pure flow. It's just me and the movement and the motion. That's what I love-- just being a barbarian, running through the woods.'"

The super-star among them, winner and record-setter of many hundred mile races out there, made a special impression on me as well. In high school, he ran at the back of his pack. He just wasn't all that fast, and although something obviously changes for him later in life, something of these formative years seems to remain. By the time McDougall reflects on all this, he is not just a reporter, but a participant in the story, and is preparing to run the 50-mile final event. He knows Scott now not just as a subject, but as something of a teammate as well, and says, "What Coach Vigil sensed about character... Scott had been all his life. The reason we race isn't so much to beat each other, he understood, but to be with each other. Scott learned that before he had a choice, back when he was trailing Dusty and the boys through the Minnesota woods. He was no good and had no reason to believe he ever would be, but the joy he got from running was the joy of adding his power to the pack. Other runners try to disassociate from fatigue by blasting iPods or imagining the roar of the crowd in an Olympic Stadium, but Scott had a simpler method: it's easy to get outside yourself when you're thinking about somebody else."

When the race finally begins, McDougall, though last in the pack, feels far better than he expects. At the half-way point he is at just over three hours, far ahead of his projected pace. Thrilled by all the success at this point in the story, my heart is pounding for him to crash through his expectations and finish in 7 or 8 hours. But he didn't- though he did cross the finish line, it took him over twelve hours. The first guys had been waiting for him almost as long as it had taken them to run the entire course.

Woah, what a let-down I thought. Then Scott walks up to him, McDougall says just what I felt, but the super-star ultra champ just claps his back and says something like: yeah, but it takes a lot more courage to race 12 hours than 7.

And the affect of reading these words in the wake of my wildly exciting forty-five minute improvement, nearly-10 minute pace 4:25 marathon was huge. It was as if I was handed the ability to drag my first marathon up by the armpits and raise it into the air, shouting "This is a success!" It took courage. And I have to admit, though it felt damn good to finish that marathon having run the whole thing with gusto, it actually wasn't as hard as the first one. It is easier to accept what happened that day, and harder to remember the Rock and Roll. So which one is the true success?

Well, the next one, I hope! And I have my eyes on a 31.3 ultra next spring, which I plan to love, love, love every step of the way.