Memories of Running

Image from

photofolio.co.uk

I remember running. Autumn—air crisp and invigorating, azure sky, and trees dressed in flaming splendor. Winter—the sting of sleet, whisper of falling snow, and air so cold that when my eyes watered, it froze like glacial tears on my cheeks. Spring—dogwoods, daffodils, and azaleas blooming, the first robins, and gentle rains. And summer—sweltering heat, the smell of new mown hay, and thunderheads looming on the horizon. I remember running.

The first time I ran as an adult, excluding running the bases in family softball games, running to answer the phone when I was outside and heard it ringing insistently inside the house (Pre-cellphone days), or running from an angry wasp or hornet (they sting), was in March of 1979. I was 33-years-old.

I began running not for the aerobic benefits. Not to lose weight. Not  because running was the “in thing” to do. I began for salvation. Yes, that’s right, salvation. More specifically to save myself from debilitating anxiety.  The reason why I was dealing with such anxiety is another story, best left untold, but as I said, the anxiety was debilitating, to the point that I was having panic attacks.  

I would wake up in the wee hours of the night, the house silent and dark around me, and listen to my heart racing frantically in my chest, and I was afraid. Afraid of what, I didn’t know. I was simply afraid. Not understanding why, I went to see our family doctor, who prescribed some type of antianxiety drug. I’ve forgotten which drug specifically; however, after only a few doses, I realized that I did not want to feel that way—like I was sleepwalking through my days. Nor did I want to be dependent upon medication to keep me sane.  

At some point I read an article, perhaps in a magazine, perhaps in the newspaper, about the benefits of running, one of which was the reduction of anxiety. That very day, I took the bottle of pills to the bathroom, uncapped the bottle, dumped the contents in the john, and pushed the lever. The little pills swirled around in the tank for an instant then disappeared and were gone forever.

Donning a pair of canvas sneakers, I left the house, closed the door behind me, and immediately broke into a run. I think I made it as far as the mailbox at the top of the hill before I had to stop, gasping for air. We lived in the country on a dirt road about a quarter mile from the next road, which was paved. When I regained my breath and once more began to run, I made it as far as the stop sign at the intersection. Doubling over, fighting to breathe, I almost retched. But not to be deterred by such a minor inconvenience as lack of air or the sudden pain in my side, I started running again. This time I covered even less distance before I had to stop. On top of my labored breathing, my shins were killing me. As it turned out, I had shin splints. Not only were my legs unaccustomed to such exertion, my sneakers were not designed for running.

The following day I drove to a local discount department store—maybe Kmart, maybe Walmart, or another store entirely (I’ve long forgotten)—where I purchased a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes (I remember those shoes distinctly). Then, I waited for my shins to heal, reading a book on running in the interim, after which I started over again—and correctly. I would run for a few minutes, walk for a few minutes, then run again, and as the weeks passed, my running time became longer and my walking time shorter. By June of 1979 I was running 10 miles without stopping and walking none of that distance. Moreover, for the first time that summer I experienced the runner’s high, that endorphin-generated state of euphoria produced during prolonged period of physical exertion.  

Image fron ak.picdn.net

Even now, these many years later, I vividly recall that day. It was autumn, late afternoon, and I had been running for perhaps eight miles, when suddenly—click—like a switch had been turned on—I experienced a sense of almost overwhelming exultation and peace, as well as a “oneness” with the world around me. The world, in fact, had never looked so astoundingly beautiful. Each leaf on every tree was distinct, the play of light across the fields was almost too beautiful to behold, the chimney sweeps soaring against the red and dying sky took my breath away. Everything was so astoundingly beautiful. It was like seeing the world for the first time, or, more appropriately, the way a person must feel who has been blind from birth and miraculously had her sight restored. I felt like I could reach out and touch the face of God. I also felt  if I could run forever—just continue putting one foot in front of the other until my heart exploded from the sheer unadulterated joy of  running. I had never felt so alive.

I continued running 10 miles a day for years, until 1991 to be exact, and though I didn’t always experience the runner’s high, I experienced it occasionally and often enough to make me truly appreciate it for what it was (at least to me)—a form of communion with my Creator.

Image from nailsworrthstrengthandfitness.co. uk

After 1991, however, though I occasionally ran and sometimes for long distances, I was no longer compulsive about it, perhaps because my salvation was no longer dependent upon running, since my circumstances had changed (another story). But, alas, time takes its bitter toll. I am now much, much older, and my body will no longer allow me to run. I miss running, though. I miss it desperately. I miss feeling my legs churning in long, smooth strides over winding dirt roads and along shaded, woodland trails. I miss the wind and rain and sun on my face as the miles fly past. I miss the measured beat of my pulse, the sweat streaming into my eyes, the sound of my Nikes padding over the earth. I miss running.

I still run in my dreams, though. In my dreams, I am gliding, soaring up and down hills, my feet barely touching the ground, and I am as light, as unencumbered, as free a feather floating in the wind. I am running. I am a runner. And I am home.