Why I Run
Today, in honor of #NationalRunningDay, I want to write about running. It’s something I’ve been doing for most of my life, but until recently I had no idea how important it was to me.
I should start by clarifying that what I do when I put on running shoes and step out the door would not be described, by most observers, as running. Jogging, maybe. Shuffling, definitely. “Dear God what is wrong with that fat dude!?” by most others. Several races classify men of my stature into a division called Clydesdales, after the big giant horses who (slowly) carry beer everywhere. Seems appropriate.
I’ve always sucked at running. I remember elementary school gym classes in which the rest of my class was happily running laps around the field, and I was panting and wheezing, walking slowly on the far side of the track.
When I was around ten, my dad started running. Slowly at first, but quick jogs around the block turned into 5Ks and 10Ks, and ultimately the New York Marathon. I watched him finish the race in Central Park, and was so unbelievably proud of my dad, who I’d never known as an athlete. I was able to find his name and his time in The New York Times the following morning at the breakfast table.
Like my dad, I’m not an athlete. The last organized team sport I played was junior football in eighth grade.
But when I run, I’m an athlete, and nothing in the world can stop me.
I ran the Brooklyn Half Marathon last month. All of my training sessions were solo. Me, my headphones, and my thoughts. Zoning out, getting in the miles. Nobody noticed me, nobody congratulated me, and nobody other than my GPS app knew that I had just set a record for average pace or weekly mileage.
That all changed on the morning of the half marathon. Suddenly, there were thousands of people starting alongside me in the corral. There were spectators standing on the side of the street, holding posters and cheering. Runners were yelling encouragement at each other, screaming as we ran underneath highway overpasses, and cheering each other up that bad-ass hill in Prospect Park. And I had (foolishly?) announced my intentions to run the race on Facebook, so I had dozens of friends following my race online and virtually cheering me on.
I ran a great race. I probably went out too fast, and should have left some gas in the tank for the last quarter of the race, but I had a blast. I was probably smiling 80% of the time. For the first time in months, I was running without headphones and music. I loved it.
Crossing the finish line of the Brooklyn Half was one of the greatest moments of my life. You make the turn onto the Coney Island Boardwalk about 800 feet from the finish, and you enter a corral of screaming fans, photographers, blaring music, and announcers. You have gone from the relatively boring cityscapes of Ocean Parkway in to (literally) an amusement park. You run through that maelstrom for about 30 seconds, and then you’re done.
When I finished, I almost cried. This goal that I had circled on my calendar, that I had been training for, that I had been relentlessly thinking about — it was done. I nailed it. And set a half marathon PR, too.
Finishing the race reminded me that I can do whatever the hell I want. It sounds crazy to most people to run 13.1 miles, especially a former fat kid who still struggles with saying no to a second serving of dessert. But I had done it — gritted my teeth, pounded out the miles, and took down a half marathon in Brooklyn on a hot, rainy, Saturday in May.
I can do it. I can run a half marathon. I can be a great husband and father. I can kick ass at work. I can handle any challenge life throws at me. Because I’m a badass. I’m a runner.
I went for a three-mile run this morning, but to be totally honest it had nothing to do with National Running Day. I forgot it was National Running Day until I had already showered, gotten dressed, and had my first cup of coffee.
Now I think I’ll go sign up for another race.
