Running has always been a part of my life. I remember my first mile: On a cold winter day in elementary school gym class, we ran laps around the baseball field. I ran until my eyes watered, my nose dripped, and my lungs burned. It hurt. But it felt good.
My elementary gym teacher, Mrs. Williams, would become my high school track coach. Years later she told me, “That day I knew you were a runner.”
High school track brought victories and disappointments. By sophomore year I was the fastest 400 meter runner on the team—until the next season, when I lost to my twin brother Gavin every single time. I never again beat him in a sprint.
Gavin and I competed together on the relays, however. We won state and broke the school record in the 4x800 meter relay, and might have won state in the 4x400 relay as well, had a Kansas tornado not blown through and cancelled the final day of the meet.
In college I ran for fun—I wasn’t fast enough or serious enough to try out for the track team. I remember admiring an incoming thunderstorm while running the hills of Lawrence, Kansas. Running was a mental release from the stress of studying, a chance to get outside and explore the town, and a way to stay in shape despite my diet of microwave burritos and foamy keg beers.
The summer after my freshman year of college I returned to my hometown to compete in the annual road race. I led the one mile for the entire race, feeling confident and fast—until a scrawny high schooler sped past me on the last stretch as I gasped toward the finish.
For the next hour after the race, I puked. That experience cured me of any desire to run fast. But I kept jogging, putting in a couple slow miles a couple times a week for the next decade.
In my early thirties I entered my first 5K road race. A 5K run is a short distance for many runners. But for a former 400 meter specialist, 3.2 miles seemed excruciatingly long.
Running my first 5K race, something clicked. I rediscovered the joy of running in a pack of excited humans. I competed against a friend and rediscovered the joy of competition. And since it was an Oktoberfest run, I ate a bratwurst and drank German beer after the race and rediscovered the joy of a runner’s high.
I was hooked. Throughout my thirties I’ve run a few races a year: plenty of 5Ks, some assorted 4 miles, a couple half marathons (chronicled in this cartoon for The New Yorker).
Races are a great motivation to train; they push me to run faster and longer than my teenage brain would think possible. But what I really enjoy are my daily runs. My runs are one of the few parts of my day where my mind is quiet.
Well, relatively quiet.
My brain isn’t scurrying over email and social media. I’m not breaking up fights between my kids or shoveling food onto their plates as fast as they can eat it. Sometimes I’m working through a creative problem: a knot in a story or a comic strip idea that’s not quite gelling.
But usually a run is a pleasant escape from my thoughts.
I start noticing things. Animals, trees, buildings. Details of my neighborhood and the surrounding city I wouldn’t otherwise notice.
The view changes with the season. Spring brings blossoming flowers and budding trees. Fall brings changing hues and windblown leaves. In winter I seek the rare sunshine and try not to slip on hidden ice. In summer I run before dawn and experience vivid sunrises and the cooling spray of lawn sprinklers.
Running helped me cope during the pandemic. Despite being isolated from my everyday routines, I could slide into my regular running practice and feel sane—at least for the half hour my feet were pounding the pavement. I could explore the neighborhood and see that despite the strange state of the world, life was proceeding all around me.
Maybe what I love most about running is that it connects me to my childhood self.
I feel like the young runner who wanted to outrace everyone in the class, who loved the feeling of pushing against the cold wind, who felt at home with spikes gripping the hot track that smelled of old tires.
I remember the feeling of dashing under the stars, sprinting beneath the streetlights, going so fast that not even my shadow could keep up…
You've inspired me to create my running short story: Shin Splints.
I started running at the age of 52. All of this. 😀