Runner

In the last month, the only thing of note I have done is run a lot. Which isn’t very notable, relatively speaking, but it is what occurred. And yes — I signed up for a marathon.

Like many runners who begin in their mid-twenties, what has developed into a cornerstone of routine began on a whim, blindly following a precipitating chain of events at a dinner table. My cousin’s girlfriend signed up, therefore he was forced to sign up, which in turn led to me signing up, and a handful of others, in support of him.

That was last year. Since then, half of the participants have dropped out. They, more fortunate than I, purchased refundable tickets. And no more than a few months later the apologetic messages began rolling in: injury, travel schedules, etcetera. I don’t blame them. Running, while being the most fundamental activity intrinsic to humans for millennia, is strangely unfit for a modern context.

There is not much reason to run anymore. We do not need to gradually hound down our prey in squadrons to secure a meal for the evening. It is also an inefficient and unruly form of transportation, particularly when we can be shuttled in metal cocoons from place to place. Other than for purposes of exercise and competition, it is mainly performed when exceptionally late to a time-sensitive affair, a circumstance which one must deem worthy enough to shed all composure to attend.

Ultimately, running has been relegated from a rugged, prehistoric necessity for survival, to a hobby done by slenderly-built men and women, who, equipped with colorful accessories and extraordinary cardiorespiratory ability, are in pursuit of small numbers, and even smaller shorts. But what I have found more interesting than the culture and clothing around running, is its all-consuming effect when you’re performing it.

Now I only possess my own experience, which is hardly a realm of rigorous thought. Additionally, I have only been running for a year or so, and in that time have rarely scratched more than thirty miles a week, which is peanut numbers compared to people who really run. But I still find that amount of volume, over the course of several months, to be sufficient enough to gain a feel for the activity, which I have grown to love and appreciate far more than anticipated.

I often run alone, without any music, or any sort of tracking. Sometimes I’ll run a familiar loop, but I usually just pick one direction and begin trotting my way, pivoting if necessary to avoid traffic (I hate running by cars). I never really know when to stop. I run for an ambiguous distance until I feel like my body is satisfied, then I try to find my way back home. In other words, most of my running can be characterized as aimless wandering, in which I am having staring contests with the street and memorizing specific patches of sky. If I’m lucky, I’ll discover a new location, in which case I’ll pause, looking around, squinting at the sun. Again I wipe salt out of my eyes. Again I hear birds. Again — that’s an important word.

The fourth mile is usually when something happens. It’s slow, then sudden. I melt into the trees. It’s warm. There’s a drum beating in my ears. Hot breath. The tread of soles biting upon asphalt. The horizon bobbing in step. Repetition is at the core of religion, which is what it can feel like at times — to feel the pleasure of some grand, important thing, to glimpse a panoramic view, inhaling, passerby dissolving into dirt, fluid and advancing as intended, yes, as I was made to do, on and on and on, until forever ends, beneath the shade of a eucalyptus tree (a delicious smell), where I return to myself.

That’s really the best way I can put it. These days I find I’m often chasing presence, and there is no type of presence more arresting than one you are forced into out of exertion. A total, lingering awareness of being alive, and empty, all at once.