I Ran 1000 Miles Despite Hating to Run
My first year as an un-reformed “runner”
Note: I wrote this in 2013, but didn’t publish it until now, five years and well over another 1000 miles later.
I grew up a nerd. A TV stereotype of a nerd complete with glasses, braces, and a wardrobe of hand-me-downs even though I was an only child. Being a nerd wasn’t so bad. Everyone expected me to be good at math and physics and book reports — which in hindsight is one of the best things to happen to a girl — and I dutifully met these expectations like the goody-two-shoes I was.
What no one expected me to be, however, was any good at sports. Winning a book prize in the national physics competition, because I could precisely calculate moving objects’ position in space and time, sadly did not mean I knew how to avoid catching softballs with my face. I was painfully aware of my athletic shortcomings, because not only was I the last one to be picked for a team, I was the one hiding behind a tree hoping the game was optional. It wasn’t.
So after spending my formative years avoiding sports — by hiding behind books, computers, and the occasional tree — even I find it surprising that over the last year I’ve reorganized my life for … running.
Since last summer I’ve run over a thousand miles — the distance from New York to Orlando. I’ve run two half-marathons, achieving my goal time both races: running 13.1 miles in under 2 hours, and then under 9 minutes/mile pace. I’ve practiced interval training, speed workouts, and hill repeats. I’ve changed what I eat, when I sleep, and how I spend my evenings and weekends — all so I can run a hundred miles a month.
Yet the truth is… I don’t enjoy running.
I’m lazy. Sitting on the couch with no discernible odors emanating from my body is magnitudes more enjoyable than the dreary business that is “going for a run”.
Let’s be real, running is one of the most unglamorous activities one can engage in. After each race, my inbox fills up with emails exhorting me to buy photos of me running. No thanks! I don’t need a visual reminder of that tortuous experience. I look grotesque: mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut, with hair and salt crusting up my face, embarrassing sweat (and worse) stains. In most of the photos it’s hard to tell if I even have one foot off the ground, let alone two. It’s a world away from the promise sold by running magazines and the likes of Nike — lithe smiling women leaping like gazelles with perfect ponytails bouncing behind them, who never sweat, only “glow”. Those images are stock photos and a big fat lie.
When non-runners hear that I ran ten miles instead of participating in a sane weekend activity like eating brunch, they always respond, “Oh I couldn’t do that,” they say as they slowly narrow their eyes and shake their head, “I’ve tried it, and running is just not for me,” followed by the confession, “I hate running.” I believe they’re displaying a defensive maneuver to thwart any attempts by real runners, i.e. the ones that love running, to recruit them into the runners’ cult. Instead, I thwart their expectations by agreeing with them that I don’t like running either. Instead of exhibiting any runner’s high, I profess that I feel gross and tired. This is met with a quizzical eyebrow raise implying the obvious question:
Why do I spend so much of my precious free time doing something I’m not particularly good at and don’t even enjoy?
During every run, I ask myself the same question. I came to the conclusion that I run because I have something to prove to myself. That every run, I can be someone greater than just who I am supposed to be. That I can set goals that seem way out of reach, and with determination and perseverance, I can achieve them.
When I first started running, I could not run a mile without panting up to the water fountain like a puppy left in a hot car. My lungs burned in vengeance and previously unknown muscles ached to inform me of their existence.
The first time I ran over ten miles was in the rain. Neither my clothes that were soaked through by the icy rain, nor my glasses that I could barely see through, hampered me as much as the burps. Usually a few burps were expected, because for the first few months, my stomach got upset nearly every time I ran, as if demonstrating in protest. But on this particular run, the burps were relentless — for twelve entire miles. Finally, after managing to stagger home like a wet rat, I discovered my knees were so tender I could no longer descend stairs.
Running is misery. Yet the suffering is precisely what makes running worthwhile for me. I am surrounded by the amenities of modern life, and rarely experience prolonged discomfort. But during long runs I’ve felt such hunger and thirst I started hallucinating about food. Several times I’ve felt I was having a mental breakdown — I was so far past my comfort zone.
Running makes me a little tougher, but moreover, running makes me happy — certainly not during the act but afterwards — by forcing me to appreciate what I normally take for granted in daily life.
Anything I do feels amazing after I’ve persevered to the end of a run. A brown-spotted banana that looked pretty gross before the run suddenly tastes like banana ice cream. Tepid tap water tastes like drinking from an artisan spring in the Alps. Any food I eat, even just cold leftovers, instantly earns a Michelin star. The simple act of lying on the ground feels like the first day of a beach vacation. Running prevents me from getting too comfortable and that’s exactly why it works.
Despite knowing the benefits of regular exercise, I still have to fight, plead, and goad myself to go for a run. My one weird trick is to put on running clothes, because the only thing more humiliating than putting on a shirt that now perpetually smells of sweat, is taking it back off without having run — that would be admitting to ultimate defeat.
After the hurdle of getting out the door, a run is still at risk of smaller defeats. Every step is a negotiation. My mind is constantly asking, “Can we stop running yet?” “How about taking it a little easier?” My knees are aching, calves are burning, arches are throbbing, stomach is cramping. It’s too hot, too cold, too dark, too many tourists. The reasons to run slower, to turn back early, or to stop running altogether are as creative as they are endless.
However, every step is also a tiny victory. Imperceptibly, each run becomes a tinge easier. Formerly daunting distances no longer seem as far. 5Ks went from being a huge deal to being it’s “just” a 5K on an “easy” day. In this way, running is like so many other endeavors in life. We all have big goals that seem so far out of reach from where we currently are. But we can persistently take steps, however small, to close the gap towards that goal. These little steps are the countless wearisome, unglamorous, behind-the-scenes tasks required to do anything great, whether it be running a marathon, writing a novel, earning a PhD, or building a product.
Acknowledgments: I never would have stuck with running without two special ingredients in my life: Ben, my constant running (and life) companion whose well of willpower has saved me time and again; and San Francisco, a runner’s paradise whose endless gorgeous parks and temperate weather make it nearly impossible to find an excuse not to run.
Postscript: At a recent track workout, I confided to the captain of the women’s cross-country team that I only started running last year. She reacted with surprise, “I assumed you’ve been running since high school!” I pictured my high school self and I smiled.
