Running for her life
A soldier urges discipline in an eternal struggle
By Ailene Sankur 01/10/2008
It is an addiction, manifested daily: My day does not start without a run.
Running can never disappoint, because it always there. Think about a trip to the gym. You have to drive there, find parking, put your name on the list for the machine, wait for someone to go past their time limit on it, get on and jog in place staring at the wall, no scenery or breeze to speak of. I am a member of a generation that grew up with supermarkets open 24 hours a day, shopping on Amazon or eBay available at 4:30 in the morning, online bill pay, 500 channels, a cell phone. I do not know how to wait for things; I'm not even sure the concept exists anymore. I will not wait for my fix. I can run anywhere, anytime. It requires only shoes and a little perseverance.
The perseverance part seems to be the hardest for non-runners. There is no learning curve, no trick involved. You just have to keep going. Running does not become painless, ever, even when it is incredibly enjoyable. So even when you are in agony - searing lungs, churning stomach, face contorted with hot, ragged breaths - do not stop to walk. The next day, you need to do it again. The next day again, and one day (never when you expect it) you will realize it has become a millimeter, an iota, a fraction of a fraction easier. You will realize for a nanosecond that you kind of enjoy it. Congratulations. You have become a runner.
Running is a constant struggle; it is the struggle. The fight for mind to control body, body to control mind. "Stop, please stop," it yells, and later when you're in shape, "Don't stop." But most of all, it is mind wrestling against itself. It asks, "am I willing to fight? Can I make myself take one more step when I am gasping for air, about to throw up, my arms and legs leaden. How strong am I really?"
Once you do become a runner, you're let in on a little secret called The Zone. One day, when you feel like you have to give up, you'll feel a tiny click within yourself. Suddenly, your legs and arms feel weightless. They fall into perfect rhythm, pumping, effortlessly, faster and faster. You can't feel the impact of each step anymore; you have the sensation of hovering over the ground. You stop being conscious of each rasping, gasping breath. Now you breathe normally, easily, as if you were on a stroll instead of a run. And your body feels so amazing floating along this way that your head cannot help but follow. It isn't euphoria; that's too fleeting and desperate. It's rapture, contentment, nirvana.
There are biological reasons behind this: when pain gets to be too much, the mind is trained to switch off. Endorphins kick in, that group of opiate proteins with pain-relieving properties. What you feel in the abrupt transformation of pain to pleasure is pretty much the same thing as a heroin or morphine high; the same receptors are triggered.
It is an incredible feeling, but it does not happen every time I run. And even if it did, it is not the holy grail of the experience, what I seek when I turn on my iPod and start running down my street. Running is not a process of pain with the ultimate reward of pleasure. It is simply a process.
So why do I run? What compels me is the whole of the run itself: a simultaneous awareness of my body and the sudden clarity of my mind. I have been running for so long it has become innate, the most natural and constant act in my life. And so it frees me to think. I wrote an essay about running when I was 15. I cannot find it now, but I remember the first line was "Running breeds silence." Not the physical absence of noise, but silence inside your own head. Running is my mental ablution; I do not feel whole, sane, or clean without it.
DIGG | del.icio.us | REDDIT