For the past few months, I have continued to ask myself, "Why do I run?". Objectively, it is a monotonous activity. Yet, its effects are almost all internal, aside from the wonder the general public feels when we witness the fastest individuals in the world, not to mention ultrarunners. After much thought, I'd have to say my answer is a complicated one. It revolves around simple reasons of staying fit and feeling the endorphins racing through my system. It also revolves around my work at the House of Charity and the struggles I face on a consistent basis at the shelter. It involves an evolution from the subconscious necessity to run to a combination of a want and need to run. I could try to stuff it in a nutshell, but that would not do the answer justice.
I think I stuck to running because my mind was trying to escape from the constant stressors that were being thrown my way at work. Facing homelessness, poverty, addiction, intoxication, illness and danger left me vulnerable, unsure of how to handle myself, and how to let others help. This, on top of the "aloneness" and alienation felt from being away from home, family, friends, even college, was extremely hard to shoulder. In one word, it was overwhelming (in its fullest meaning). Feeling and experiencing so much, without knowing how to process it, running provided a temporary escape, an outlet to ease my mind.
Running became the most effective way to duckdive the waves of headache that kept rolling in from the horizon. It provided a constant in a time when I was still acclimating to a new job and a new region. The basic repetition of the motion, the pattern of the act, kept me sane. Winter approached and I knew I would be facing harrowing times on the wet and sandy roads/sidewalks of Spokane's suburban sprawl. The necessity to keep moving had me dodging ice patches and puddles, leaping over slush muck and getting sprayed by passing traffic. It beat up my shoes, and tested my body. Yet, in the dead of winter, running on a fresh snowfall, I was at peace with myself and my surroundings. I was able to bury my struggles and meditate on the season, on my purpose in Spokane and the possible motivations that kept me striding.
Footfalls on 4 inches of new snow are quiet. The roads after a snowfall are quiet. Wildlife is bundled up in den and nest. The only noise you hear is your breathing. Its rhythm is soothing. In these moments I witnessed the raw nature of my humanity showing it face, free from all distraction. Winter was a transformative season in which running became a tool for acceptance. I accepted the inevitability of my aloneness. I accepted my vulnerability and the harrowing emotions that lurked inside of me. Where at work I often felt helplessness and defeat among a brutish population, I found strength and progress in running. Still, I had no real answer to why I kept tackling miles on road and trail. By January, I had recognized that running was my medicine and that I had come to enjoy it very much.
On the move, my only competition is myself, and the only expectations I have to meet are my own. I can constantly tune the dial on both. In cold and snow I had control, and I still do. I think many of us run for this reason, amongst many more. The revelation had sunk in that running was doing so much for me, and that I wasn't hanging up the sneaks anytime soon. Fueled by the lure of challenge, I sought my sights on participating in my first significant road race. It was the Snake River Canyon Half Marathon in Pullman, WA, a couple months down the road in March. The thought of conquering 13.1 miles of turf seemed like a lofty but attractive one, so I hastily put in my registration and began training. The weeks following that click of the mouse would turn out to be more of a mental battle than a physical one. By sprinting, pacing, climbing, aching, thirsting, starving and doubting I began to find out who I really was and discover a potential that I never could have imagined.
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