Why I Run: Part I

9 Oct

“Why do we run?”

Answering this question invariably offers a window into our myriad personalities. For many of us, running feeds the thirst for achievement and recognition. For others, running offers a comradeship forged in a shared struggle against adversity. Some pursue the sport because it provides a refuge from worldly chaos, a shelter in which the prize of introspection arises over many miles covered alone. Still others view running in spiritual terms: the union of humanity and nature, the transcendence of one’s corporeal limitations, the worship of God through divinely-bestowed talents.

“Why do I run?”

If I were to summarize my response, it would involve a combination of all the elements listed above and more. No thorough explanation is possible, however, unless I return to my origins, to the early days of my encounter with running. We must go back to the spring of 2002.

I was 15 then, a socially awkward home-schooler living in Spanaway, Washington, about forty-five minutes south of Seattle. My parents decided that I would benefit from some form of athletic participation. With absolutely no skill in any of the major team sports, running was essentially the only available option. They didn't cut people from the track team. As I later learned, it was precisely for this reason that all of the rejects from baseball and soccer flocked to track and field, a kind of catch-all club for all of the male athletes who possessed an abundance of ambition but an unfortunate deficiency of talent. In short, it was a community in which I would feel welcome. As I would soon learn, running had one singular advantage over all other sports, especially for an athletic novice such as me who couldn't even put a spiral on a football. Running demanded no prior skill, no technical foundation or knowledge of rules and strategy. Running demanded only one thing: the submission of the body to the mind, the furious and single-minded resolution to place one foot in front of the other for as long and as fast as one's will permitted. At the end of the day, running is simply the struggle against the tide of one's own weakness; no more, no less. Only much later would I fully understand the beauty in this, the raw purity of humanity's most basic expression of physical prowess. Back then, as a 15 year old kid, all I knew was that running would be a vessel into which I would channel my will, in spite of what I thought were quite pronounced physical limitations.

The decision to run was not my own. My parents more or less forced me into it, though I do not recall putting up any resistance. Once all the administrative issues had been dealt with and I was allowed onto the team, I came to view running as I viewed everything else: a challenge in which to test my mettle. I have always possessed an insatiable desire to prove myself, not for the glory of recognition – though I would later develop an appetite for that as well – but rather for the inner satisfaction of knowing that I explored the limits of my potential. I was born with a tendency towards stubborn persistence, a trait that has produced both good and ill fortune over the years. It was, however, my upbringing to which I owe my work ethic. Both of my parents pulled themselves up from poverty, and it is this gritty determination that has left its indelible print upon my personality. Right away, I viewed running as a proving ground. Again, my approach to the sport was perfectly tailored to the nature of the sport itself. Running offered an objective gauge of ability, an indisputable and universally accepted means with which to both measure self-improvement and compare one’s performance to that of others. The clock told all. I would not only know if I was improving, but by how much. It is this obsession with objectivity to which I trace my early gravitation towards track over cross-country. While people can argue over which running course is more difficult, the track never lies; period. My love affair with track began as soon as I realized that it would be the same task again and again. Run four laps as fast as possible, then repeat it again the next week. Though some people despise such monotony, the predictability of track fed my desire to know just how good I was.

I remember a conversation I had with the head track and field coach after the first information meeting, sometime in January or February. I asked him about the events. “Is there a 2 mile event?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. The next logical question: “What times do the best guys run in the 2 mile?” “Hmm, you’re looking at under ten minutes, as fast as 9:30.” My awe-stricken reaction to this revelation proceeded from the fact that I had never broken 6:00 in the mile. Averaging under 5:00 for two miles seemed superhuman, even freakish, especially to someone unaware that the 8:00 barrier had already been broken. I relate this tale because it helps to explain my position in the sport two years later, when my own abilities eventually reached the level of which the coach had spoken. I would not become an elite by national or even state standards, but in my own mind I would refer to myself as such. My origins in the sport were so humble and obscure that my 9:52 3200, run in May of 2004, was a tremendous triumph, the culmination of a rise that I had not thought possible two years earlier. As a gangly 15 year old, I started out with nothing: no background in running, no knowledge of training or competition. When told that there were some who could break 10:00 in the 3200, I put such thoughts far from my mind. I certainly would never be capable of such things. All I could hope for was steady improvement, a string of PRs week by week.

And so the tale begins. I initially tried the sprints, but after two days I was politely told that the distance group would be a better fit for me. Read: I sucked at sprinting. I was thus brought under the tutelage of Mrs. Beckman, a math teacher who coached both the female cross-country team and the distance track squad for both genders. Over the next two years she would play a formative role in my development as a student, as an athlete, and, most importantly, as a young adult working to reintegrate himself with his peers. My rise as a distance runner proved to be a phenomenon of far- reaching implications in my personal life, as the sport would eventually transform into something that transcended individual achievement alone. Though running is often described as the loneliest of all sports, runners were never meant to carry on alone. To this day, the desire for community remains a fundamental reason for my continuing involving in running.

In my first meet as a high school runner, I participated in the 1600m and 3200m races. The results? 5:43 and 12:22. I don’t recall much about either race, only that I wasn’t last in either of them. It was, as I said, a modest beginning. I had accumulated perhaps three weeks of practice. I didn’t even own a pair of racing spikes. My coach and my teammates, however, were invariably supportive. Acceptance was extended to everyone, regardless of ability. Though shy at first, I came to enjoy the company of my peers. We distance runners were always a tighter-knit group than the sprinters. We spent more time together, whether it was running side by side over miles of suburban road or converting our legs to Jell-O in the middle of an intense interval session. I soon became good friends with Robbie and Jessica, the two top runners on the male and female squads, respectively. It was due to the influence of the former, in particular, that I learned how to test my limits in the workouts. I admired Robbie’s physical and mental toughness, and tried as best I could to replicate them. Several weeks into the season, my increasing fitness, combined with some form corrections and a set of track spikes, led to a breakthrough at one of the dual meets. I ran 5:10 for the 1600, then came back with 11:30 for the 3200. Not long after that, I ran the 3200 fresh and managed a 10:57. I was now the second fastest runner on the team in both distance events, a rise that had occurred over a remarkably short period of time. At the Sentinel Classic, our school’s annual track and field invitational, I lowered my PR to 10:42. With only one dual meet remaining, I had one goal in mind: break 5:00 in the 1600. I succeeded, clocking 4:56 and finishing second, my first top 3 finish.

Meanwhile, Robbie and Jessica had both qualified for the sub-district meet. I traveled with the team to watch my first postseason meet, an event that I would not attend as a participant until the following year.

Stay tuned for Part II!