Why I Love Running

The other day someone asked me what it was I really loved to do.  When I answered “running” they seemed a little unimpressed, kind of like they were looking for something more complicated or more elegant than just “running.”  I tried to explain it in better words, but couldn’t manage to help them feel why I chose to love something so plain, so monotonous, and so unspectacular as running.  It bothered me that I couldn’t answer their question any better, and for the past few days it hasn’t left me alone—like I really needed to understand what it was that made me answer “running” whenever someone asked me what it was I loved.  I think I may know now.

I love the first few steps as I begin an early morning run.  I love the sound of the door closing behind me, and the feeling of good shoes laced snugly on my feet as I step into the morning air.  I love the freshness of the air and the quickness of my feet as I take those first steps, and I love wondering if I’ll be able to PR this time—hoping I can push it enough.  I love the little beep I hear after hitting “go” on my stopwatch, and love the way my body accelerates as I round the corners of my neighborhood and head out to the road.

I love the first bead of sweat that forms on my forehead, right between my eyes.  I love the way it drips down, either burning my eyes or salting my tongue.  I love the other drips of sweat that follow, rhythmically falling off my nose, chin, and eyebrows or sliding down the back of my neck, but I rarely notice them since I am focused on my running by then.  I love that focused feeling—the feeling of ultimate oneness with myself, when my mind and body merge and leave nothing except a symphony of pumping arms, inhaling lungs, and the relentless ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ of my feet on the asphalt or dirt.  I love the perfect clarity of that focus, and the way I can think about everything or nothing when I’m there.

I love the sudden feeling of looseness after the first mile or so—when I don’t have to try to make my legs run anymore and they just do it.  I love looking down a long stretch of road and watch the distance bounce up and down, shortening one step at a time.  I love getting to the end of long roads.

I love when I have two miles to go and my legs and lungs want to quit.  I love making them keep going anyway.  I love the feeling of a cramp in my side and running until it goes away.  I love saying “shut up” when my mind begins wondering if I’ll ever finish a long run.  I love second and third winds.  I don’t love walls, but I do love seeing if I can run through them—I love it when I can’t because I know I was giving my best.

I love the purity of running in a light rain and the sheer joy of running in a downpour.  I love the feeling of lightness that comes when I run with the wind and the determination and guts it takes to run into one.  I love the sweaty challenge of running on a hot summer day and the striking cold that takes away my breath in the winter.

I love the challenge and the goal of training for a race.  I love the adrenaline, excitement, and anticipation of competing.

I love helping a friend push it harder than they thought they could, and I love it when they do the same for me. 

I love when I finish a morning run.  I loving leaning up against my tree or crashing for a second on the grass in front of my house and soaking in the accomplishment and satisfaction.  I love stretching my muscles and feeling them thank me for what I just made them do.  I love showering off the sweat and then feeling great the rest of the day.

It has been two years and eight months since I’ve been able to run.  I ended up with plantar fasciitis in both of my feet after my first collegiate season of cross country.  Neither the coach nor the trainers nor I caught it in time.  With the help of some podiatrists and therapists I’ve managed to get one foot better, but the other still hurts right where the heel meets the arch.  I keep hoping that next month it won’t.  Alas, c’est la vie.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to run again, but I work towards my goal with faith that soon I’ll be lacing up my bright-orange Asics, stepping out into the fresh morning air, hearing the little beep that means “go,” and seeing the first beads of sweat begin to fall from my forehead. 

It has been thirty-two months since I’ve been able to run, but I haven’t forgotten what it is that makes me love it. 

I’m really glad that someone asked.