I Think I Can Finally Call Myself A Runner
Sure, I was on the track team through high school and most of college as a pole vaulter and occasional sprinter. In the three (three and a half....eek!) years since graduation, I've run off and on-- I'll run for a couple of months and then either get injured or frustrated by the unreasonably high goals I set for myself and stop. But I've never considered myself a runner. Since I've been in India, however, I think I can finally call myself a runner.
I'm running six days a week, doing speedwork twice a week and a long run on Sundays, even though there's no event I'm training for. I'm out there running in the blistering heat, crushing humidity, torrential monsoon rains and crepuscular darkness (sometimes all during the course of one run) for no reason other than love. Running has come to occupy a central place in my life since I've been here, and it helps me to process and understand the new and strange surroundings I'm in and the often even-stranger interior landscape of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences.
My runs help me mark off the passage of time-- my days revolve around meals and my evening (and sometimes morning) run. My runs give a rhythm and a routine to my days and weeks.
They also help put me in touch with the patterns and cycles of nature and the rhythm of life here. Running around the fields at UC College, I can tell from the dense cloud of dragonflies at one end of the soccer (sorry... football) field that it's going to pour in about 15 minutes. When the air is filled with the prayers being broadcast from nearby mosques, I know that it's quarter after six and I have another forty-five minutes before it gets too dark to run anymore. Some evenings, I won't wear a watch and will just head for home when the first group of small bats starts to dart and swoop over the field.
My runs get me out and interacting with people. The paperboys in the mornings, and folks on their way home from work in the evenings. For every person who laughs and yells what I can only assume are rude comments at me as they whiz past on their motorcycle, there is another who will slow down to keep pace with me and ask my name and what I'm doing in India; about my "native place" and family; what I think of Kerala and if the food is too hot.
Running also helps me stay in touch with my own rhythms-- of my feet hitting the ground, of my breath, of my heartbeat, of my thoughts. Sometimes I think that running might just be the best meditation practice there is. And as such, it's a very important, special, and sacred time for me. I'd like to say that I use my runs as a time to process the events of the day, to sort through my often indecipherable feelings, but that's not quite true. Since most of my attention goes towards just staying alive and upright,-- one foot in front of the other, remember to breathe in and out-- conscious, deliberate thought and processing are kind of out of the question. Rather, thoughts arise and pass away naturally with little to no commentary or analysis. Just awareness of their existence while my attention is on my breath and my footfalls. And I think this keeps me much more at peace and much more aware of what's really going on inside than my normal selective attentions possibly could.
Some days, I let my feelings and emotions power my runs. Some days I just let them all pour out as I burn some 800 repeats. Some days I put everything I've got into my run-- all my love, all my hate, all my joy, all my despair, all my insecurity, all my fear, all my hope, all my doubt, all my faith. These runs are the most exhausting, and the most cathartic. It's really useful to feel everything that's in you at a given moment; acknowledge its presence, really feel it, and let it out. And that's all. Don't dwell, don't obsess, don't even think. Just be.
Running is also just about the only thing I do that is just for me. Most people (certainly the majority of people here, and even most of my loved ones at home) don't understand why I run. And they don't have to. To quote Penny Arcade, "It's not for you." Nobody else has to understand. Heck, I don't even have to understand. It's something that I do for myself and myself alone. And that's a really important, special thing.
Sure, I was on the track team through high school and most of college as a pole vaulter and occasional sprinter. In the three (three and a half....eek!) years since graduation, I've run off and on-- I'll run for a couple of months and then either get injured or frustrated by the unreasonably high goals I set for myself and stop. But I've never considered myself a runner. Since I've been in India, however, I think I can finally call myself a runner.
I'm running six days a week, doing speedwork twice a week and a long run on Sundays, even though there's no event I'm training for. I'm out there running in the blistering heat, crushing humidity, torrential monsoon rains and crepuscular darkness (sometimes all during the course of one run) for no reason other than love. Running has come to occupy a central place in my life since I've been here, and it helps me to process and understand the new and strange surroundings I'm in and the often even-stranger interior landscape of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences.
My runs help me mark off the passage of time-- my days revolve around meals and my evening (and sometimes morning) run. My runs give a rhythm and a routine to my days and weeks.
They also help put me in touch with the patterns and cycles of nature and the rhythm of life here. Running around the fields at UC College, I can tell from the dense cloud of dragonflies at one end of the soccer (sorry... football) field that it's going to pour in about 15 minutes. When the air is filled with the prayers being broadcast from nearby mosques, I know that it's quarter after six and I have another forty-five minutes before it gets too dark to run anymore. Some evenings, I won't wear a watch and will just head for home when the first group of small bats starts to dart and swoop over the field.
My runs get me out and interacting with people. The paperboys in the mornings, and folks on their way home from work in the evenings. For every person who laughs and yells what I can only assume are rude comments at me as they whiz past on their motorcycle, there is another who will slow down to keep pace with me and ask my name and what I'm doing in India; about my "native place" and family; what I think of Kerala and if the food is too hot.
Running also helps me stay in touch with my own rhythms-- of my feet hitting the ground, of my breath, of my heartbeat, of my thoughts. Sometimes I think that running might just be the best meditation practice there is. And as such, it's a very important, special, and sacred time for me. I'd like to say that I use my runs as a time to process the events of the day, to sort through my often indecipherable feelings, but that's not quite true. Since most of my attention goes towards just staying alive and upright,-- one foot in front of the other, remember to breathe in and out-- conscious, deliberate thought and processing are kind of out of the question. Rather, thoughts arise and pass away naturally with little to no commentary or analysis. Just awareness of their existence while my attention is on my breath and my footfalls. And I think this keeps me much more at peace and much more aware of what's really going on inside than my normal selective attentions possibly could.
Some days, I let my feelings and emotions power my runs. Some days I just let them all pour out as I burn some 800 repeats. Some days I put everything I've got into my run-- all my love, all my hate, all my joy, all my despair, all my insecurity, all my fear, all my hope, all my doubt, all my faith. These runs are the most exhausting, and the most cathartic. It's really useful to feel everything that's in you at a given moment; acknowledge its presence, really feel it, and let it out. And that's all. Don't dwell, don't obsess, don't even think. Just be.
Running is also just about the only thing I do that is just for me. Most people (certainly the majority of people here, and even most of my loved ones at home) don't understand why I run. And they don't have to. To quote Penny Arcade, "It's not for you." Nobody else has to understand. Heck, I don't even have to understand. It's something that I do for myself and myself alone. And that's a really important, special thing.
posted by Andy at 9:59 AM
1 Comments:
You make it sound so good, maybe I should try running!
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