Running has been a big part of my life since I was a kid. At first it was biking — using my dirt bike to get to my friends houses, or going up and down the gravel roads of the idiosyncratic and progress-resistant community I lived in as a child, Killam’s Point in Branford, Connecticut. That too was a form of running — building my leg muscles, letting me slowly and progressively push my endurance levels, getting me comfortable with wiping out on the side of a road that rarely saw traffic.
Later, I joined my prep school’s cross country team. Here is why I chose cross country over soccer, or football: I was feeling extremely stressed, academically and socially, and wanted something that wouldn’t be particularly stressful. During recruitment, members of the cross country team ran out in morning assembly wearing shorts, sweatbands, and thigh-high socks, eating from a bag of Doritos and tossing a frisbee back and forth. It was chill. Not cool, not impressive, just low-intensity, do what you feel like. I signed up on the spot.
This clever bit of propaganda was a massive lie. I worked harder and pushed myself further physically running cross country than I would until I reached Ranger School in the military, or, later, combat in Afghanistan. It turned out that I had a competitive streak. Running cross country helped bring that out and focus it, turn it inward, so much of the time I was competing with myself. We ended up fielding a pretty good team my sophomore year, and then, my junior year. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d stuck with it senior year.
In the military, I reached my peak as a runner. I ran the Florence Marathon in 2006, and regularly logged around 30 miles per week. These aren’t elite numbers, not even particularly impressive for amateurs. But I was benching around 240-250lbs, averaging 6 minutes and 45 seconds for 5 mile runs, and 8 minutes and 30 seconds for runs between 9 and 10 miles long.
Most importantly, I felt great. Running had by that time finally delivered on its promise to make me feel good — chilled out, relaxed. By the time I left the military, running with music was a solid way for me to destress and decompress. It wasn’t about staying in shape, it was about staying sane.
So when I read this piece in today’s Wall Street Journal about running, something about my journey clicked into place. Earlier this year, I made the decision to shed wearables and music entirely when I run, just to get out and enjoy the process as far as my body will take me.
My right knee is pretty banged up, which limits me to certain trails, and certain distances. I can still do a jog pace — but anything longer, or on roads, will lead to the knee (which I injured during my first deployment, and through which I gutted) giving me major trouble in the days after. So practically speaking I’m never on my legs for longer than a half hour anyway.
But it’s so nice to do that half hour or twenty minutes without feeling compelled to measure — distance, time, songs listened to, heartrate achieved — none of it. It’s so nice to just get out there and do what my body’s still capable of at the tender age of 48. That, folks, is a benefit of getting older — and a little bit wiser.
The Local Blind Spot 