Runners in the Dark

I've taken three days off from running as I have rounded out my first year of PhD work here in Princeton. The mental exhaustion has presented itself as a prolonged case of apathy. But now that things are wrapping up, I feel like I may be in a position to finally gear up for better training and a reinvention of my training plans. The ultimate goal is to run my first half-marathon (though I ran at least 13.1 miles on a weekly basis during college long-runs) this fall. Now keep in mind that two months of that training will have to take place in Stuttgart, Germany where I will be undergoing my first summer of field research (of which I will write later).

What I wanted to share in this entry, however, is something pretty fleeting and precious (to me). This evening I was taking my dog out for a walk through the nicer parts (they really are nicer) of Princeton. There was a thin layer of fog settling in and silent flashes of lightning off in the distance as we made it back to the main road. It was then that I saw two runners passing by on the other side of the road. I saw them first, but it was as though the moment I recognized them was also the moment I really could notice them. The steady sound of rubber soles on pavement- faint but unmistakable- and a slightly labored breathing that spoke about miles traveled. They passed out of my sight quickly, but I felt an intense jealousy. Though I had agreed to give myself the time I needed to recover off of the last ten days of work, I couldn't help but feel like I had fundamentally disappointed myself again.

Before college I had become somewhat of a nocturnal runner. This was partly out of necessity as training during the day in the middle of July was nothing short of a desire to suffer endlessly, and partly out of a really pervasive case of morning sloth. I haven't been a morning runner since High School summers, and even then these were particularly the most painful runs I would do. So, after work (or after Scrubs was over) I'd lace up my shoes and head out on the roads at night. Perhaps to my mother's horror. But once I was out there I would fall in love with the run completely. The air would still be warm, but the sun's oppressive and brutal regime would be at its end. Shadows would be long and that dark blue sky would just start to form in the east. And the remarkable wave of quiet would start to build. That was the sweet spot. Traffic would dwindle away as people returned home and I would be out there with but a few wandering pedestrians or kindred spirits left. The trees along the bike path or roadsides would fill in with shade and suddenly everything more than three feet from me would be heavy and unreachable. I would hear my own breathing and foot steps without the din of the world around me. And if I chose to draw my attention away from my task, all I'd hear are those ambient night sounds that really don't require describing. After the runs I would walk around in ever shrinking circles on my street in front of my house. While I would have accumulated a small insect graveyard on my chest, I wasn't particularly troubled at that point. Instead I'd just take deep breaths and enjoy the fact that I was done.

Night running really represented something pure about the act of running. While I had always been in it to race, night running was that time when I came closest to loving running only for the simple act of running. I'd race past shadows and façades familiar only during the daytime. I'd be in the world without regard for my surroundings (don't worry, I was always safe) and instead really focus on my runs. As I get back to running, I often find myself doing evening runs out of procrastination more than anything else- but once I'm out there and the light dims a little, I think I get a little taste of that feeling I'm after. I think back on night runs in the Parisian parks or back home in Algonquin, and I really do think it all looks a lot alike in the dark. It all looks like me.

"When You Become A Stranger Again"

At some point or another I think most of us experience moments when we feel like a stranger to ourselves. Some of us wake up and realize that we have gone down a path we never thought we would chose. Others feel as though the words they speak are not their own. But for me, the moment when I felt like I could no longer recognize myself was when I started running again. On that first run back I felt like this body was not mine, that it no longer submitted to my desires.

To contextualize this moment of existential (non)crisis, let me just say that running has been critical in my life for the better part of a decade now. I started running Cross Country in Middle School as an alternative to competitive swimming (and to get some social time with my friends at the time). Those early years of running were nothing spectacular, and I regularly lost to girls. But I stuck with it for some reason or another. By my freshman year of high school I had a break out year and I became a fairly competitive high school athlete. I was never a top competitor, but I was also pretty serious about what I was doing. I'd stand on the starting line and empty my body of everything but the shuddering of my heart and that cold burst of anticipation before the sound of the gun. My summers were 6 am runs and a feeling of accomplishment.

The summer before college was one of the best summers for running I had ever had. I finally started logging miles, my training runs were rejuvenated by a new sense of purpose. Now, I had never had high hopes for running beyond college, but I had always thought that I could be a competitive DIII runner. There was no career in it for me. Just the joy of competition. But college didn't pan out that way. After a promising start to my college career, I languished. And with each disappointing month, perhaps interrupted by an occasional PR, I found myself laden with a growing sense of anxiety. By my second year I found myself filled not with the shudder of a heart or the rush of cold anticipation, but a tied knot where my stomach should be. I would lose sleep wondering if the next race would finally bring me out of mediocrity and elevate me to the level I had always thought I should be. But it never happened. Running lost its innocence and it became, instead, a new stressor in my life. Though I'm glad I ran in college as it added tremendously to my life in many, many ways, I can't help but feel that by the last year competitive running had finally siphoned off the joy. The only problem with that thinking is that it was competing that made running fun for me. I didn't want to head out the door without a purpose. What good was a 9 mile run if not to improve and to test myself continuously?

After my last (and most disappointing) collegiate race I promised myself that I'd begin competing for myself. I purchased a new jersey top to serve as a new uniform for my next phase. And yet the motivation was gone. I just couldnt bring myself to get up and out the door. I watched all summer as my girlfriend rekindled her love for running and improved with each passing week. And inside I stayed. By the time grad school started up I just didn't care about running. It brought me no pleasure and I saw no reason to do it.

Then, in the last few months I began to miss that post-run feeling. That sensation of being completely awake and light. So I started to run. And that's when I felt like a stranger.

My rhythm was off. My arm swing felt awkward and my strides felt like plodding. Everything seemed completely out of sync. That unity of mind and body I had grown so accustomed to was gone. For the past month I have struggled to put together more than 2 days of running in a row. And while my motivation has gotten better, I think what's keeping me back most right now is the fear that I'll never come back to the way it used to feel. While I had never been a top athlete, I always knew I could run well when I needed to. If I lost a race, it was because the other guys were just better than me at that moment, and I had faith that I could improve through training. But after four years of languishing in the middle of the pack, and now a year of gradual decay, I have to find my way back to running again. I want nothing more than to be able to turn back out sub-5 minute miles on runs when I feel like it. I want that turn over to come back. I want to feel like I own my body again.