Thursday, August 24, 2006

Big Fat Lies

I subscribe to Runner’s World magazine. It’s a very useful resource. It talks about training techniques, injury prevention, what to eat, how to run faster, stronger, etc. Exactly the sorts of things you’d expect a magazine on running to have in it.

Then there are the inspirational stories.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I love reading those stories. Stories about people who were sedentary getting off their duffs and going on to run a marathon. People with diseases overcoming them. Elite athletes excelling. All good stuff. And, because I’m a total softy, I get all verklempt and weepy reading those accounts.

But I swear, in every issue there is a runner quoted as saying that she loves running. And that she could not live without it. Because it clears her brain and lets her mind expand. She loves getting out into the world and getting in touch with nature. And she goes on and on about the lovely endorphins that course through her veins. “The endorphins, my heavenly stars in the sky, the ENDORPHINS! I’M IN LOVE WITH THE ENDORPHINS!” She speaks eloquently of the runner’s high and how exquisite running is. Seriously, it borders on pr0n on occasion. Or how running is very zen and a tranquility hovers over the rest of her life BECAUSE she is a runner. She was not a complete person until she discovered/began running. Really makes you want to lace up a pair of shoes and hit the open road. The glory of running all packaged on glossy paper and perfect bound and delivered to your mailbox.

Or some other crap like that.

Here’s my dirty little secret about running:

I don’t enjoy it. I do it. I do a lot of it of late. Last week I did 24 miles and this week I’ll do about 22 or so.

But I kind of hate it.

And the endorphins? The zen-like state of higher consciousness? The exercise pr0n?

Lies. All lies. Big, fat, and very sweaty and seriously stinky lies.

I’ve never had a runner’s high. I don’t know squat about a “second wind” where you feel like you might never stop running. Like you could run for days and nothing is holding you back. I don’t feel joy and frankly I don’t like being outside that much. I get sunburned so easily and heat stroke is a few steps closer for me than it is for the rest of the population, I think. And I’ve come to believe that endorphins are made up things, like elves or a balanced Federal budget. They don’t really exist and people talk about them like they do so they won’t feel stupid about killing themselves while running. It’s all pain and suffering and hell while I’m running and with every step I swear that I’m going to stop that very instant and start slouching on the couch again, TV remote in one hand, cold beverage beside me and my other hand scratching my nether regions until they have to pry my fat booty off the sofa with a crane. I really don’t enjoy the physical act of running.

Or any other physical activity for that matter, so don’t try and pawn off bicycling or some other sweaty crap on me, OK?

But here’s what I do enjoy about running. I love, flat out, LOVE the sensation of having run. I love the past tense of running. I keep a running journal of sorts and nothing gives me greater pleasure (even more enjoyment than scratching my nether regions) than thumbing through it and looking at all the past runs and the miles I’ve logged. That’s what keeps me going. And the races. Though I’m not at all competitive, I like the jittery feeling you get at the starting line and the sheer joy of the finish line. That’s very cool, indeed. I’ve been running “seriously” for about four years now and keeping pretty good track of my runs for the last year or so and I really dig looking back at the past history of pain. Much more so than looking forward to Saturday’s long run or Tuesday’s fartleks or intervals.

Now, I’m not saying that I really hate running. It’s way easier now that it used to be. I can run 5-6 miles without really thinking “this is gonna suck toad skins.” And that’s a nice feeling, I suppose. And my heart is in much better shape than it was a few years ago. And I’ll probably die later rather than sooner because I’m in better overall health than I used to be. And sometimes it’s not bad at all for those in between miles. Occasionally, there are short periods where I think, “Not too shabby.”

But I just need to point out that I think those folks who say they get some kind of basal pleasure from schlepping down the street with stinkiness oozing off themselves; they are big, fat LIARS. OK, they probably are not fat, because let’s be honest, it’s hard to be a fat hard core runner. That’s not a zen-like nirvana you see on their faces as you pass them in your car though, it’s agony and them counting the steps until they can stop the madness and sit back down on the couch.

Now, where’s my cold beverage? I did 8 miles just now and I want my damn cold beverage!

Jon scribbled this mess on 08/24/06 at 07:02 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post Running Log Favorite Entries. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

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