“You must really love running.” That is often the response I get when people discover I run marathons. I find it interesting, the assumption that I must inherently love running so deeply to do it. People often assume that I have such a strong passion for the sport, and this is what allows me to tolerate its grueling challenges. After all, it is our human nature to seek pleasure and avoid pain, so who would intentionally expose themselves to that degree of discomfort? The idea seems very counterintuitive.
The truth is, I probably hate running just as much as they do. Before each run, as I am lacing up my shoes and preparing to hit the pavement, I bargain with my thoughts and invent excuses. Oh maybe, if I wait till 5:00 pm to do it, I will have more motivation by then. Or, maybe if I skip this run, I will somehow still get faster. I console myself. I am actually so good at inventing excuses, that I have reasoned my way out of multiple marathons. Behind the successful completion of two marathons include the three separate occasions where I completed 80% of my training program and then gave up. That’s right. I spent months building up to 18 mile runs, and then I gave up three different times. Running these distances is hard for me. I do not have a coach. I do not have a team. So each decision I make to put one foot in front of the other comes entirely from me. When I run, I spend over four hours alone with my thoughts and in a state of physical discomfort. I definitely don’t like that. And I definitely try to find excuses not to do it.
Some people run because it satisfies some need for accomplishment. Some run for the runners high. They feel fitter. But I don’t run with these end goals in mind. I run for the adversity and challenge it gives me. For me, running is about embracing a journey filled with sacrifices and difficulties that spur personal growth.
While the idea of seeking adversity may sound good on paper, it is much different in practice. Just last weekend, I embarked on a 20-mile training run. The first six miles were misleading. As I neared runners high, I felt entranced by the natural beauty of the surrounding oak trees, their leaves glistening and refracting sun beams. The air seemed so pure, and the sky a clean, pale blue–the kind that signals the arrival of fall. The melodies from my headphones flowed through my body like serotonin. I thought to myself, why not just run 26 miles today?!
But these pleasant sensations were short-lived. By mile nine, I became well acquainted with boredom. The same, repetitive, dull movements left me with nothing but my thoughts. And in a world of quick-fix dopamine hits, that kind of solitude was particularly uncomfortable. I watched my thoughts float before me like clouds. Some encouraged me. Some taunted me. I practiced over and over, returning my attention to the present, where time moves both the fastest and the slowest.
By mile fourteen, the onset of fatigue in my hip and knee joints invited more forceful thoughts, coaxing me to stop. The music from my headphones became stale, so I turned it off. My chest tightened. My arms and legs began to chafe from the repeated friction of my athletic clothes. The wounds stung from the sweat. And probably five or six times, I played with the idea of abandoning my marathon goal, just so I did not have to finish the run. Everything inside me told me to stop. But somehow, I knew my legs would keep going. I knew I was going to finish. The three hour feat was a beautiful paradox.
To answer my frequently asked question, I run marathons to intentionally put myself in difficult situations that teach me about resilience. I run marathons to show myself that I possess more persistence than I ever thought possible. I run marathons to train my will-power, increasing its strength like a muscle that grows stronger with each challenge.
And while I run marathons for the adversity itself, the true reason I run is for how running has fundamentally changed my perspective on adversity. I often think back to losses in my personal life I have experienced, especially those that brought waves of powerful feelings like sadness and doubt. Running has transformed my perspective on these moments. I have learned to see them as pathways to potential. Thanks to the important lessons that the sport has taught me, I now approach setbacks as an opportunity for growth and perseverance in a way I never could have before.