Running

This person, whoever they are, is probably better at me than running.

I never came to running, per se, in any school-sanctioned or intentional capacity. I think I literally just went out in my tennis shoes one day and kinda just hustled until my lungs hurt. Sure, I had been forced to undergo some “conditioning” in high school and college, as training for my sport of choice, squash (which will be the subject of a future "I Like That" blog).

It was really only once I had struck out on my own, post-college, that I found running, as an activity, rounded out my life. Made life subtly better. Like a seasoning that enhances that which it touches, but is not necessarily all that enjoyable by itself.

Also, despite having consistently-ish run for nearly 20 years, I am not, in any way, an impressive runner. My chest sticks out. My arms do a little chicken wobble. My legs are straighter than necessary, making me look like I’m trying to escape a ghost in the original Scooby Doo. The distances I run are similarly non-aspirational. In a normal session, I’ll go around 3 miles, which, I’ve found, is enough. I do not have grand ambitions to DO THE BOSTON. Or any other such running event.

All of those caveats noted, I do have a deep connection to running that only seems to be growing as I become older and more decrepit by the season. These are the reasons.

REASON 1: To Think

This explanation is going to feel like a stretch at first, but I will do my utmost to make it resonate with you by the end.

Carl Jung, the famous Swiss psychologist, proposed the idea of there being a conscious and unconscious part of the psyche. When I say psyche, I just mean “whatever is rattling around in your noggin.” The conscious part, in his estimation, consisted of things we either think or thought about—emotions, memories, ideas, etc. Immediate things. The unconscious, on the other hand, was filled with repressed memories, buried feelings, and what he called archetypes, which are less ideas and more patterns of thought passed down to us by our ancestors. And, to be clear, he makes a pretty compelling case that these buried parts of our psyche are far from mumbo jumbo, and significantly affect us in daily life.

Most germane to my particular running-based application of his theory: the barrier between the conscious and unconscious is permeable. Meaning, an idea or thing that we know can slip into the subconscious and we can “forget it.” Or, conversely, a subconscious thought, often appearing as a “realization,” can bubble up into our conscious and we can become aware of its existence.

In my experience, this phenomenon of unintentionally discovering new ideas—making realizations, forming connections—happens reliably when I run. Not every time. But, if it does, it’s normally at about my second loop around our neighborhood, which happens to be about 1.5 miles in. My joints have usually settled into a non-argumentative rhythm. My breathing—which I exhale for eight beats out the mouth and then inhale for three back through the nose—is not labored. I’m starting to sweat, but my pace feels strong and consistent. And then there it is: an idea.

These ideas appear almost fully-clothed, as if placed in my head. This experience, of receiving a complete idea with “no conscious effort,” is why, I think, so many philosophers and writers and artists have thanked “the muse” for providing them with ideas. Because ideas of this sort don’t feel self-produced. They feel like a gift.

My dilettante’s hypothesis is that there’s something about the activity itself that makes this occur. The conscious mind is preoccupied with the basic actions of moving forward, and breathing, and staying upright. And that, somehow, greases the liminal layer between the two parts of the psyche. My support for this theory is how often ideas pop into my head when I’m doing other similarly diverting activities: driving, mowing the lawn, taking a shower, sorting clothes. All of these activities take just enough brain power, and are repetitive enough, that they give that murky part of my brain the latitude to send an idea on up.

And it’s these little idea gifts are particularly useful to me because my profession, and personal passions, almost holistically center around the creation of new ideas. Or at least new ways to express the same old things.

So, if you're looking for new ideas, perhaps a run could help!

REASON 2: To apologize to myself for past poor decisions

I work at a brewery. Sometimes I do things that I wish I hadn’t.

When I do this, I get disappointed in myself. And then I get grumpy, which is good for nobody.

But when I get a good run in, it tends to set all of my other humours into balance. Like, I’m more patient. My pulse feels more even. I am able to enjoy the situation in which I am in, versus thinking about potential bad situations, in which I might not be at all, arising in the near future.

And so running, in this sense, is my hairshirt. My penance. So when I have finished a run and perhaps pushed myself further than I originally intended—did an extra loop, took a side street, booked it for an extra hundred feet at the end—it helps to balance the ledger of my soul.

And balancing the ledger of my soul puts me in a better mood.

All of which is to say, running is my way of apologizing to my body for the ills I have wrought.

REASON 3: I want to stave off death.

Sure, that’s a bit heavy. But it is true.

I can’t help but notice that my body is aging in ways that I had never considered. I, like everyone else, had heard of “aches and pains” and throwing your back out when just, like, turning a corner too fast. (Both of which have happened to me.) But I had not anticipated the disconcerting internal stuff: being short of breath after playing with kids, my heart thumping in the middle of the night after a couple of beers, the creakiness of my musculoskeletal structure if I don’t stretch.

These freak me out. And in a way that’s less “gettin’ old, right?!” and more “I can now spy the shaded forest ‘pon yonder far-off ridge.”

By contrast, there’s a particular lightness to my post-run body. It feels as if I have been holistically scoured. Scrubbed clean by the prolonged heat of the run, like a dish in a two-hour wash cycle. It’s not that any one moment of the run is enough to do something, but prolonged time (or, in my case, 25-ish minutes) of non-stop running is enough to flush out the ol’ engine.

Unencumbered is also a word that often springs into my skull as I’m setting out for a run. I usually just wear light and fitted clothing, thin socks beneath my running shoes. (On the subject of shoes, i have to say that my Brooks Ghosts have been the best running shoe I have ever owned. Take that with salt, as my previous two running shoes were tennis shoes and then Nike Frees, which offer less support than an estranged parent.) Sometimes, I wear a hat or gloves, if the weather calls for it. No headphones or device thumping against my body. Just thin fabrics and the road.

All of this is a direct counter-acting force to the corrosion that time is wreaking within me. Running feels like renewing. Or, if not renewing, at least prolonging. And that all helps me enjoy the moment I'm in, rather than being reminded of the inevitable moment when I am not.

I could have named this reason: Brett Feel Good After. But I like this angle better.

And that’s about it. The main reasons why I find deep comfort, creativity, and joy in the act of running. Hope it inspires you to lace up and hit da bricks—if only for a brief jog.