I never understood the joy of running before. Running, to me, was work or punishment. If you failed to listen to coach, you ran laps. For fitness testing, you ran two miles. I equated the pleasure of running to that of homework. Three years ago I could never imagine running 26.2 miles as so many did on Monday as anything more than torture.
I think I get it now.
I wasn't born to run, but I've become a convert of that most masochistic of religions. You have to be a little crazy to enjoy the pain of running. There is a natural absurdity to running, for when you think about it, you literally take the longest route to get back to exactly the point where you started. There are no fantastic plays in running, no real All-Stars to emulate. It's utilitarian. It's not glamorous, but it's not supposed to be. You run for yourself. Your competitor is your own weakness.
One of my best friends likes to quote Canadian marathoner Peter Maher, who said, "Running is a big question mark that's there each and every day. It asks you, 'Are you going to be a wimp or are you going to be strong today?'" A bit harsh, but the Canuck has a point. Running offers itself freely, and you can choose to accept it or ignore it.
Running is also the true solo sport, which makes it that much more difficult. If you fail, you only have yourself to blame, and your victories go unknown and uncelebrated (most of the time) except by yourself. Yet despite its solitary nature, running is an amazingly communal sport. It offers almost immediate acceptance to whoever is willing to strap on a pair of shoes and hit the asphalt.
Whether you run a mile or a marathon, it seems, you're an automatic member of the club. Every time I go for a run, wherever I am, I inevitably receive a friendly wave or an encouraging nod from fellow runners. Anyone who has sweated and trudged around Davis Square can attest to the kindly spirit that running brings out in even the most hardened Bostonian soul.
There is a peace that comes from running. Driven on by every failure or defeat, each pounding on the pavement is a small victory. Sometimes it seems quixotic to rage against adversaries of hills and endless stretches of sidewalk, challenges that you bring upon yourself; but you can't deny the sense of accomplishment that inevitably waits to greet you in the end.
I understand the fanaticism behind running, the therapeutic effect it can have for both the body and the mind. But up until a few months ago I had missed out on the competitive side of running, the thrill of overtaking another runner and crossing a real finish line, rather than one invented in my mind.
I ran my first race last October: The Tarzan Brown Mystic River Run, a 5.5-mile race along the Mystic River in Connecticut. I ran it in just under 49 minutes, which is nothing impressive, but you've got to start somewhere.
Several friends and I ran the race together. We started out at a brisk pace. At mile three I was still going strong, keeping stride-for-stride with my long-legged friend. A half mile later I fell off her pace and blended back into the pack. With about a mile and a quarter left we hit one of the last hills on the run, and I began to fade. My running partner refused to let me go, however. And with a slap to the behind, she goaded me to keep going. That gave me my second wind, and I pushed on, sprinting that last quarter-mile or so, breaking across the finish line.
A couple of friends waited to congratulate us afterwards. It was an amazing sense of success, and I can't even imagine what a marathoner must feel at the end of his or her arduous race, but maybe one day I will.
I was sidelined with a bad sprained ankle for most of this winter and have just gotten back on the road in these last few weeks. T.S. Eliot was right when he wrote that April is the cruelest month, as the weather is finally inviting for long runs, but most of us find ourselves trapped in the library. But those papers will eventually get written, so make time and get out and run. You'll always be welcome.
Andrew Bauld is a junior majoring in English. He can be reached at Andrew.Bauld@tufts.edu.
