I want to love running, but it's so hard to love something that doesn't love you back. Ever. Okay, once in a while, but not nearly enough. Especially when it loves all the other runners in Central Park and I have to watch them basking in the rays of its love.
Like the woman in bright yellow tube socks and stylish spandex (there is such a thing) cheering on fellow runners sprinting to the end of their morning run, the sprinters flushed and smiling, not doubled over, bright red and exhausted.
Like the lanky woman with a high kick and red-dotted soles cruising up hills as if they were downhills, a gaze focused and intent, and a pursed mouth, meaning she wasn't the least out of breath, or she was actually a machine that doesn't require oxygen.
Like the tall blonde boy, a body my mother would call skin and bones, who takes all six miles of the park in ten strides or less.
Like the Asian boy in loose pants and a white v-neck with a shoulder bag scurrying uphill past me as if to get to class.
Like the wheezing man practically walking up the hill past the boat house who I actually cruised past, and he passed me later.
I've just finished a 45-minute run. Or, more accurately, a 45-minute run just finished me. I'm about six months into a very consistent training schedule. I'm in better shape than I've ever been in my life. I can swim and bike up a storm. And it was only a month or so ago that I was polishing off 60-minute runs with a report of "feeling good" afterwards. This shouldn't be happening. So what's going on?
When I put aside stress, speed modulation, nutrition, fatigue from yesterday's swim, and any other reasonable excuse, I think perhaps I've been approaching running wrong this whole time. The problem is in my relationship to running.
I've always approached with great apprehension. Each run is a roll of the dice. A hope that it will be like that one amazing run I had weeks ago, that fast 6-mile loop around the park where I reported "feeling good" afterwards, able to do more. But the memory of one good run only makes up for so many bad runs afterwards. Perhaps this is the same reason I don't think I would be a good candidate for an abusive relationship. A good memory can only wipe away so much pain. A floating-on-air feeling for the first 20 minutes can't power me through the last 30 minutes when my right thigh doubles in weight and begins to throb. But maybe what I need to do is love running first, love it with all my heart, buy a pair of yellow tube socks, pick up my kick and cheer myself up every hill.
Or I could just throw away my watch. There's a sinking feeling when you're convinced you've been going for about 40 minutes and you look down to see it's only been half that time. When halfway up the hill, drained, you realize only 60 seconds have passed, not five minutes. Or maybe I need to love my watch, too. Cherish every minute. Stop, take a breather, forget about how I'm supposed to be feeling after all the training I've been doing, slow down, enjoy. There's the park, deep and green, canopies of leaves flipping and shaking in the wind and rain. There are the thickening drops of rain darting against the brim of your hat, kicking off the backs of your shoes, soaking your clothes. The long stretch and hot shower when you get home. And the only runner's high I've ever known, the end, when you don't have to run anymore.
