For those of us who run mostly for fear of getting out of shape, the mythical runner’s high is about as elusive as Alice’s white rabbit.
That’s the way it used to be for me. I found it ridiculously difficult to run on a regular basis; it was always work, about as much fun as doing the dishes.
On the rare occasions that I did go running, I ran laps around the track, always noting how many laps I’d done. There seemed to be no point in running unless I knew exactly how fast I’d managed to complete a specific, pre-determined distance.
I’d envy the runners I passed on the streets on my way to class. You’ve seen them – they look like models for Runner’s World, blazing by you with headphones on, in their element and oblivious to anything else around them. Why was it fun for them and not for me?
The stab of envy would strike even when I passed little old ladies clad in beanies, gloves and lots of spandex, chatting cheerfully at 8 a.m. as they jogged past, snippets of their conversation hanging in the frigid air.
I’d marvel at their ability to talk and run at the same time. Every time I’d ever tried that, conversation quickly gave way to ragged breathing and the sound of my own panting as my feet laboriously pounded the synthetic rubber track. Pathetic.
All that changed recently.
I got off work one night, stressed and feeling as if my skull would explode.
The urge to get away was overpowering. Impulsively, I grabbed my iPod and took off into the streets.
I was running; the pumping music drowned out the sound of my breathing, and the rest of the real world, too. For once, the empirical elements of distance, speed and time didn’t matter.
A few days later, a friend dragged me out running again, making it clear that she was no track-rat and wasn’t about to become one for my sake. We headed up to Hendricks Park, talking the whole time.
The conversation tapered off when I realized, halfway up the hill to Hendricks Park, that I felt like I was going to die. But my ego and competitive streak intervened: As long as she kept going, there was no way in hell I was stopping.
The magical thing about running is that the longer and harder you go, the more likely you are to slip into “The Zone.” You somehow reach this point where your lungs stop begging for air, your legs feel lighter than they did when you started, and you feel as if you could run forever.
I didn’t find “The Zone” that day at Hendricks Park, but I had a good enough experience to set out on my own and with my buddy several times over the next couple of weeks, realizing each time I ran that I discovered something new.
I liked feeling the crunch of something other than rubber beneath my feet and discovered something liberating in running not because I wanted to meet a specific time, but just to get away from everything else.
So take it from a reformed track-rat: Force yourself off that repetitive circuit, try to get away from the numbers and onto the pavement and just go.
It hurts a lot less when your music’s so loud that you can’t hear your own breathing … or when you’re running with someone and refuse to stop because you don’t want to show that you’re hurting more than they are. And once you get into “The Zone” and find the runner’s high, it’s addictive. You’re gonna keep going back for more.