Running is Cheaper Than Therapy

Not being able to go six days without something can be either a sign of great love, or great addiction. When I was out there for the first time since last Tuesday I was metaphorically head over heels, but leading up the run I was certainly jonesing pretty badly. I'd been meaning to hit the pavement pretty much every morning but hangovers and lack of sleep got in my way every time. From staying out until 3:30am after my volleyball match on Wednesday to a birthday party on Friday to a cookout and a birthday party on Saturday I have not been in any shape to lace up. But even when I was lying prone on my bed unable to roll out and order some day-after-drinking-Indian-food I wished I was pushing myself up Prospect Park hill.

I feel like I'm at an odd place right now. Nights like Wednesday - random weekday drinking with some friends and some friendly strangers - are what my early years in New York were built upon. And moments with friends Friday night and all day Saturday are the kind I've rarely turned down any time in my adult life, unless I had scheduling conflicts. I'm not quite at the point where I'd trade these times for a good hour and a half around the park at 6 A.M. but I do think I'm closer to that point than I've ever been.

Especially after days like today. Long, grueling days of work that involve staying late, stressing out about the mountain of time-sensitive projects that never seems to dwindle, and having mild panic attacks about the direction my life is taking. Until recently such days would have had me bee-lining for the closest bar stool (or for the bar stool closest to my apartment) but today all I could think about was getting home, strapping on my shoes, balling up all of the shit that had been building in my head all day, and running it into the ground.

I was so anxious that I barely did warm-ups, and that was evident in the minor needles I felt in my lower calves as I started up. But unlike last week, when these spikes of pain cracked my concentration, I welcomed the pinpricks, and took them as a sign to open my stride and quicken my step. Even though I was only going marginally faster than my normal jogging speed (and near my current 5K racing pace) I felt like I was flying. I felt absolutely unstoppable. I zoomed past mortal pedestrians, who were no doubt confused at the sudden wind and the Asian-looking blur that just passed them by. Hyperbole aside I cannot remember the last time the first mile of a run felt so good.

I'd decided that I was going to run Fort Greene park and back, which is a roughly 5K circuit with some minor trail running. The kicker is the three flights of steps at the halfway point of the run. I like to do one rep starting at the bottom and then throw in ten pushups before starting back up. It's a route that became my standard workout at the end of last summer - managing five reps with a total of 50 pushups and 100 crunches - but one that I'd only done once so far this year. And that time I'd only managed to get up and down the stairs three times, with no bonus calisthenics.

As I was speeding toward the park - at my blistering pace of a 9:10 minute mile - I decided that I was going to hit the steps again. I felt good when I hit the park, switching from sidewalk running to the dirt of the park's uneven runner's trail. I was running well; moving smoothly and breathing steadily. When I got to the steps I almost scoffed at them. Five reps? Simple, I thought to myself.

Halfway up during my first rep I remembered why it took me all summer to get to five last year. I was sucking wind pretty badly when I hit the top, but that was always the case even when this was my normal workout. I started the downhill looking to catch my breath, but it didn't fully return. Knocking out the ten pushups seemed easy, but I was still breathing heavier than I thought I should have been. The second time up the stairs was slightly harder than the first, and yet again I didn't recover on the downhill like I remembered doing before. Ten more pushups. Elementary. The third time up the steps was noticeably more difficult. I was churning my arms to keep myself in motion, and forcing myself to focus on the steps in front of me lest I trip and eat cement. I was dizzy at the summit, out of breath with that hollow feeling in my lungs that, as a child, signaled asthma coming back. On my way down I told myself that three reps was good enough. It matched the only other time I'd tried to run the stairs this year, and it was a good foundation to build on in future runs. There was no shame in stopping after this next set of pushups, taking a small breather, and finishing the run back home. Yes, I decided. Three was enough.

And then at about my second pushup "Body Movin" queued up on my playlist and I cursed myself. Not only is this a song that I'd promised myself I would NEVER quit a run during, but it is also a song that never fails to make me believe that I don't even need to quit in the first place. I'm literally invulnerable to fatigue while this track is playing, and so I found myself hitting ten pushups and grinding my way back up for a fourth shot at the stairs. It was brutal, but my Beastie-Boy-powered determination was even more brutal. I crushed that last rep and decided after that to make my way back home. My hip-hop addled body wanted to continue but something in the back of my head urged prudence. Had I pushed myself too far? Had I exerted too much on that last circuit of stairs?

Yes. Yes I had.

A third of a mile later, at the entrance to the park, I needed to stop. My playlist had moved on to Belle and Sebastian, which I usually use to coast after the adrenaline fueled push of the previous song, but there was no coasting this time. Out of breath, ready to pass out, ready to puke, with cramps up my sides and back. But oh god was it worth it. I'm generally a fan of some amount of foolhardiness when working out. If you're not pushing yourself just a little past the point you thought you had to stop, I feel like you're doing it wrong. Even if it's not a PR, any run where you stubbornly push past everything in your body saying "I think I'm done", even for just a moment, is a pretty fucking good run. Obviously you need to keep some semblance of sense for personal safety, because some physical limits are real, and injuries are also real. But there's nothing quite like telling the more sensible part of yourself to step aside, because now it the time to get some real work done.

After a few minutes of calm breathing I was ready to go and cruised the rest of the way home. It wasn't quite that runner's focus that makes it seem like you can just run forever, but it was getting there. I probably would have hit that high had I kept pushing. It's not quite euphoria, but not far from it either. A reward for pushing past doubt, and exhaustion. Past "I'm tired", past "This hurts", and past "I've had enough." It's that prize on the other side of what you thought you could accomplish; that thing that keeps runners on the road during storms and heat waves. The calmness that comes from movement, straight up, limbs pumping, wind in your face, sweat pouring from everywhere. That peace that washes away the slights and stresses and disappointment that the rest of life sometimes brings.

Find your peace. Run easy.