As of today, it has been 354 days since I last posted anything on this blog (frankly, I could calculate it down to exact hours and seconds, but accurate recording would require hitting the back button that would edge me closer to the rabbit hole precipice that threatens to ensure I will never actually finish this post, thank you pinterest). As for the runner's log, it's been easily longer than that, by at least a few months. In both categories of interest—running and other things—I would like to say that I've been unceasingly productive... in the case of the latter, I have indeed been slaving over word processing and digital design programs (see my design blog), creating theses and portfolio projects and education plans, oh my! But in regards to the former, I'll refer you to a quote from my very first runner's log:
I hate running. Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it. So I've decided to start over, start small for real. No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment. Just me and my two legs. We'll see how it goes.
Swap out nine months for (gasp!) two years, and exactly nothing has changed. Which, I suppose, is a credible excuse for why I haven't written, although, my better conscience would argue, not entirely accurate. I still keep trying, and I still keep letting time slide by with my butt in a chair and a computer on my lap, convincing myself, mid-solitaire break (yep, it's a crucial part of research), that I can't possibly spare a wee little hour to lace up my shoes and hit the road. It's not like I'm inactive; I walk to catch the bus or ride my bicycle to campus and take evening strolls and rides... ditched the cable a long time ago, so there's no food network marathons to steal my hours away (although the interwebz with its kittehs and Ted talks does a significant job of that all on its own). And yet, I still manage to not have time for running when I'm not obligated to do so, as demonstrated by the fact that I've spent the past few months training with some friends for an upcoming fun run and on only two occasions have I ventured out on my own.
The second of these occasions happened to be a few hours ago. I've been reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, a journalistic narrative about his quest to find the hidden secret of the world's top, and mostly unknown runners—ultramarathoning mountain goat runners who zip gleefully up and down treacherous trails at impossible elevation grades in unfathomable conditions. The secret, it seems, is to simply run for the love of running. To be unencumbered by the performance science de rigueur, and to drop obligatory notions of getting faster, going farther, edging out the competition, fitting into the skinny jeans, or whatever reason it was that got you started in the first place. He recounts the idea that we have forgotten what it's like to be a kid; to just run at top speed for as long as you can just for the hell of it... not even thinking about running, just pure, zealous play. Needless to say, I was inspired (it's a good read, even if you're not a fan of running, which, as I'll discuss momentarily, is a preference that I haven't been able to shake). I put down my book mid-chapter, crawled out of bed (hey, it's summer break... there's no shame lazing about reading a book all damned day), and jogged right out the front door. No route in mind, no timer in hand, no headphones, no goal. I just wanted to run. If these people could run 135 miles in Death Valley, surely I could do a couple around the neighborhood. In fact, I didn't even commit myself to that tiny goal. My new goal was to run until I felt like I was done.
The lifetime channel ending of this story is that I trotted along happily to find that I had completely outdone myself, pleasantly surprised at learning what I could do if I just let loose. The first part of that actually did happen. For about ten minutes. After I pressed my legs through their initial contentious achiness, I strode easily, falling into a rhythm between my breath and the padding of my feet on the asphalt. But soon enough I found myself pushing, my pace was no longer a glide so much as a weighted clopping, and I struggled to be mindfully appreciative of the occasional cool breeze or patch of shade. And then the true bludgeoning began. The "surely I can go a couple of miles" optimism chanted by the angel on my left became "seriously, you can't even go two fucking miles? You're a joke," taunted by the devil on my right. I tried to shield myself with the reminder that I started with no goals and there was no shame, no failed expectations if I needed to stop. So I pressed myself to the next stopping point and passed it, taking a little pride in my Lilliputian demonstration of tenacity and focused on recalling the blithe, light moments of my youth. And in that moment, my legs stopped cold, holding fast on the concrete like a mule at the back of a pack line. I don't actually remember doing much at full speed when I was a child. In fact, I was the dawdler, reluctant, analytical, and ponderous, always a good ten paces behind everyone else. Me? Run? What a waste. I walked sluggishly back to my house, entering as a hunched shadow where I had hopped out bright and hopeful only minutes before.
"Hey, you should be proud that at least you got out there." It's what I would have told any of my friends who were struggling, and I would have meant it. But applied to my own wounds, it seemed a trite and complacent remedy, a band-aid over a bruise. It dawned on me as I was walking that I was too ready to accept failure, or at least what I thought of as failure. I've spent all of this time thinking that failure pushes me to do what I need. Sometimes I push forward in fear that it will catch me, and other times I turn to battle it.
***
Sometimes, even, I quit in the midst of my own determined consideration... as in then, however many months ago (over 6, mind you), that I began this post. I remember being tired of my own complaining, thinking that nobody would care. Now, reading in retrospect, it seems all at once trivial and rebuking. I haven't put on my running shoes perhaps more than 3 times since then, and I'm guessing most of those were when I couldn't find my slip-ons to make a quick errand to the store.
I guess the point is that I'm not here to kid anyone, especially myself, but sometimes it happens anyway. Mostly, I guess in some ironic opposition to the definition of failure, I succeed by deceiving myself into thinking that I can't do it. So I give up. But then, sometimes straggling and defeated, exhausted and emotionally starved, I give in to that little nagging voice. I always come back. Always. As for the running? I'm sure I'll start again someday. And have to restart again some day after that.
For now, I should probably go back to whatever serious work it is that I've been avoiding.
I hate running. Nine months of this cyclical start and stop, physical and mental bludgeoning in pursuit of self-betterment has taught me that. But my better, non-guilt-driven side feels there's something inherently good about the potential of all of this, so I want to like it, or at least be at ease with it. So I've decided to start over, start small for real. No goals, no playlists, no apps, no schedule restrictions, no judgement, no punishment. Just me and my two legs. We'll see how it goes.
Swap out nine months for (gasp!) two years, and exactly nothing has changed. Which, I suppose, is a credible excuse for why I haven't written, although, my better conscience would argue, not entirely accurate. I still keep trying, and I still keep letting time slide by with my butt in a chair and a computer on my lap, convincing myself, mid-solitaire break (yep, it's a crucial part of research), that I can't possibly spare a wee little hour to lace up my shoes and hit the road. It's not like I'm inactive; I walk to catch the bus or ride my bicycle to campus and take evening strolls and rides... ditched the cable a long time ago, so there's no food network marathons to steal my hours away (although the interwebz with its kittehs and Ted talks does a significant job of that all on its own). And yet, I still manage to not have time for running when I'm not obligated to do so, as demonstrated by the fact that I've spent the past few months training with some friends for an upcoming fun run and on only two occasions have I ventured out on my own.
The second of these occasions happened to be a few hours ago. I've been reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, a journalistic narrative about his quest to find the hidden secret of the world's top, and mostly unknown runners—ultramarathoning mountain goat runners who zip gleefully up and down treacherous trails at impossible elevation grades in unfathomable conditions. The secret, it seems, is to simply run for the love of running. To be unencumbered by the performance science de rigueur, and to drop obligatory notions of getting faster, going farther, edging out the competition, fitting into the skinny jeans, or whatever reason it was that got you started in the first place. He recounts the idea that we have forgotten what it's like to be a kid; to just run at top speed for as long as you can just for the hell of it... not even thinking about running, just pure, zealous play. Needless to say, I was inspired (it's a good read, even if you're not a fan of running, which, as I'll discuss momentarily, is a preference that I haven't been able to shake). I put down my book mid-chapter, crawled out of bed (hey, it's summer break... there's no shame lazing about reading a book all damned day), and jogged right out the front door. No route in mind, no timer in hand, no headphones, no goal. I just wanted to run. If these people could run 135 miles in Death Valley, surely I could do a couple around the neighborhood. In fact, I didn't even commit myself to that tiny goal. My new goal was to run until I felt like I was done.
The lifetime channel ending of this story is that I trotted along happily to find that I had completely outdone myself, pleasantly surprised at learning what I could do if I just let loose. The first part of that actually did happen. For about ten minutes. After I pressed my legs through their initial contentious achiness, I strode easily, falling into a rhythm between my breath and the padding of my feet on the asphalt. But soon enough I found myself pushing, my pace was no longer a glide so much as a weighted clopping, and I struggled to be mindfully appreciative of the occasional cool breeze or patch of shade. And then the true bludgeoning began. The "surely I can go a couple of miles" optimism chanted by the angel on my left became "seriously, you can't even go two fucking miles? You're a joke," taunted by the devil on my right. I tried to shield myself with the reminder that I started with no goals and there was no shame, no failed expectations if I needed to stop. So I pressed myself to the next stopping point and passed it, taking a little pride in my Lilliputian demonstration of tenacity and focused on recalling the blithe, light moments of my youth. And in that moment, my legs stopped cold, holding fast on the concrete like a mule at the back of a pack line. I don't actually remember doing much at full speed when I was a child. In fact, I was the dawdler, reluctant, analytical, and ponderous, always a good ten paces behind everyone else. Me? Run? What a waste. I walked sluggishly back to my house, entering as a hunched shadow where I had hopped out bright and hopeful only minutes before.
"Hey, you should be proud that at least you got out there." It's what I would have told any of my friends who were struggling, and I would have meant it. But applied to my own wounds, it seemed a trite and complacent remedy, a band-aid over a bruise. It dawned on me as I was walking that I was too ready to accept failure, or at least what I thought of as failure. I've spent all of this time thinking that failure pushes me to do what I need. Sometimes I push forward in fear that it will catch me, and other times I turn to battle it.
***
Sometimes, even, I quit in the midst of my own determined consideration... as in then, however many months ago (over 6, mind you), that I began this post. I remember being tired of my own complaining, thinking that nobody would care. Now, reading in retrospect, it seems all at once trivial and rebuking. I haven't put on my running shoes perhaps more than 3 times since then, and I'm guessing most of those were when I couldn't find my slip-ons to make a quick errand to the store.
I guess the point is that I'm not here to kid anyone, especially myself, but sometimes it happens anyway. Mostly, I guess in some ironic opposition to the definition of failure, I succeed by deceiving myself into thinking that I can't do it. So I give up. But then, sometimes straggling and defeated, exhausted and emotionally starved, I give in to that little nagging voice. I always come back. Always. As for the running? I'm sure I'll start again someday. And have to restart again some day after that.
For now, I should probably go back to whatever serious work it is that I've been avoiding.
