Why I Run
I needed an answer. And boy did I get one.
People run for so many reasons. Some run to lose weight. Some run to clear their head. Heck, some are just running to get out of the goddamn rain. Running is personal, and for each and every one of us there’s a different story, waiting to be told.
When I started running, people asked me why. Why was I running? Why? Why? It took me a little while to come up with an answer that truly reflected my reality. I thought: ‘Sure, I’m running…but what am I running from? Am I running from my dad? My responsibilities? Maybe I’m running from my self?’ But in the end, I had to admit it: I was running from a little old man called Mr. Shreem.
Since talking to other runners in my neighborhood, I have discovered that many of them are running for exactly the same reason: they are trying to outrun Mr. Shreem, the 83-year-old man with big hands who is chasing us for reasons that remain unclear.
I didn’t get into running to flee Mr. Shreem. At first, on the advice of my doctor, I wanted to make sure that I lowered my BMI a little and took better care of my health. Then, when I told my doctor what happened whenever I went running, he suggested that I run faster to lose Mr. Shreem.
“That’s why I run too,” he whispered. “To outrun the man they call Mr. Shreem.”
A typical morning run for me looks like this: before work, I put on all my gear, lace up my trainers, and step out of the front door. I put in my earphones and start to listen to a podcast. Taking a deep breath, I break into a jog. This tends to be when Mr. Shreem appears behind me, 50 or 60 yards away. Most of the time he silently looms out from beneath a truck or inside a bin. Occasionally he says “Shreem” as he emerges.
More often than not, he is also wearing running gear — but the running gear is far too large for him, and significantly restricts the movement in his arms and knees. He is also 83, which is very old. Mr. Shreem isn’t daunted by these problems. He lumbers frantically after me, saying “Shreem’s here” now and again, and tripping over his enormous basketball top.
Ultimately it’s a case of maintaining a steady pace and trying to outwit him. Mr. Shreem is fit but he is easily confused. I have found that if I suddenly look in one direction but jog in the other, he will often run in the direction I looked. This gives me valuable time to shrug him off. Similarly, if I duck into a hedge or submerge myself underwater, the chances that he will find me are - like Mr. Shreem - very slim indeed.
I hate to imagine Mr. Shreem catching up with me. This doesn’t mean that I don’t imagine it. I suppose that, if he were to catch up with me, he would leap through the air and tackle me to the ground like a lion felling a young zebra. I run so that such a day may never come.
I look at people who run for reasons that aren’t about escaping Mr. Shreem — admittedly a shrinkingly small minority — and I envy them their freedom and innocence. I wish I were running away from a toxic relationship or my abandonment issues. But no. I run from Mr. Shreem, the long old man in the baggy, baggy clothes.
Why does Shreem himself run? My doctor told me of a man whom Shreem once caught up with and cornered. He was stricken blind. My doctor couldn’t say anything else without being sick. We have no option but to assume that Shreem’s motives are malign.
One day I hope to turn around and find that Mr. Shreem is no longer following me; that he has given up the ghost and crossed the finishing line in the race of life. Until then, there is strange comfort to be found in my early starts, my quickened breath visible in the morning air, and the knowledge that the revolting Mr. Shreem will always be there, panting softly behind me.
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