The sanctity of running

Whenever someone finds out that I've gone for a run, they inevitably follow up with the question "So, are you a runner?" I usually say no. I don't really consider myself a runner, because although I run sometimes, I'm not one of those people with the Running Gene. There is, beyond a shadow of a scientific doubt, a running gene. In fact, the chromosome looks like this:

You can't argue with science.

Anyway, I don't have it. I know that because...my jogs never accidentally turn into 10 mile runs. I feel every single step I run, and I want to stop pretty much the whole time I'm running. In short, it's a sort of masochistic hobby.

Yet, I find myself selling people on running, all the time. And, I look back on any long distance training I've done with a combination of warm nostalgia and winces of pain. But mostly nostalgia. So that got me thinking: What is it that I love about the run? (Not the runs; the RUN. Singular.)

I've been feeling lately that there is a much stronger connection between the physical and the spiritual world than we realize or appreciate. When you think about it, a lot of what we practice in the course of a day is about mastering the physical so it's more in harmony with the spiritual. I try to not eat every cookie I bake, both because I'll get fat and because self control is good for me. I try not to make out with every boy I see, for lots of reasons: That's slutty, I don't have time, and self control is good for me. So you see, there is something really amazing about harnessing the power of the body for good. When I run, I'm very aware of my body (Candice, that part was for you). I can feel the weak spots and points of fatigue, and I can also feel improvement over time. It's such a gratifying thing to notice those things and push through them, or to use some sort of technique to bolster suffering areas. On a good run, everything gets quiet, and very simple--I have a goal and only have room in my brain to concentrate on what I need to do to reach it. And while I may be cursing my running shoes the whole time, it's pretty cool when I finish what I started.

When I started running, I couldn't fathom going more than a mile without stopping. I really couldn't. And then one day I ran a half marathon. (That would sound much more Ka-POW if I could say "and then one day I ran a marathon." But, kids, I'm not a runner, remember? I'll take what I can get.) The only way that happened was through this process of paying attention to the physical and helping shape it to do what I wanted it to.

Taken literally, this realization is interesting for me because I wonder what else I could do if I worked at it. But it gets even more interesting--and empowering--when I think of it on a deeper level. If it's possible to mold this body into something I choose, then it's possible to mold me--my spirit, my mental state--into something better too. I think that's what I like about running. Even though it's really hard and takes FOREVER to make anything happen, over time I can look back and see the cumulative effects of my efforts, and they are incredible when compared to where I started. That's the point of life, isn't it? It's hard to feel any results of hard work when you're living it, minute by minute. But keeping at it puts you in the position to look back later and see how far you've come. Running, a metaphor for life? Man, I sound like such a nerd. I don't even run that much, so this is funny. Anyway...

I think it's amazing how intricately designed this probationary period is for us. With our bodies in this world, we have a perfect laboratory for learning how to become like God. He controls the physical elements in a way that mirrors all of their spiritual implications, and each of us has a piece of that work to practice on ourselves. I like the idea of life as one big, long race with myself. And at the end, hopefully I'll cross the finish line just like I did in the half marathon (remember, HALF marathon): Super dramatically, full of weeping and wanting to throw up, but knowing I did everything I could to get there. I feels really good to hold nothing back and complete a task with absolutely nothing left.

End monologue.