11/11/2022: 3.39 Miles
So I bought a comic book the other day as a I sometimes tend to do, and I was struck by what seemed to be the optimistic message of the book: That, in short, a life lived with no regrets is a life worth living. And I’ve been ruminating on that since reading that book, because it is something of a bad habit of mine to regret a lot of things. Not just to regret either, but to lament those things I regret, to be haunted by them, and at worst, to be defined by them. But I’ve been trying to go against that habit of mine in months past. And I’m going to try to train myself to turn bitter memories into happier ones through this little project that I’m going to start delving into, here and now.
What is the Flashback Project, you ask? It is, in large part, the inspiration for this blog. I have said for some time now that I would like to put the essence of my running career into writing; the frequent blogging about running has already started to incentivize me to do that. Although I have written two Flashback stories at this point, I want to ensure that all Flashback entries are well-edited and revised before publishing them in even this modest context. I believe the first one is ready today, because although I am well aware that it could still be so much better, I am also aware that all projects eventually need to begin somewhere if we want them to ever be completed.
So without any further ado, let’s begin.
~2013: 1 Mile
My dad had recently suggested that I run with him a bit on the weekends. I was in seventh grade.
My body was still developing, so I couldn’t really keep up with him when we ran a little bit on the Charles River for a mile or two, and I could only stand by in awe when he took his turn at running a timed mile on the BU track, which was just a couple blocks from our house.
The timed miles that my dad and I ran at that track quickly became my favorite physical activity, and it wasn’t just because we agreed that running a mile gave me an extra hour of videogame time. It’s because the first time I ran a mile around that track, I had to stop and walk during the second two laps. And the second time I did it, I ran the entire time. And every time I ran that mile, I could tell I was getting a little bit better at it.
—
Running is like nothing else that I have experienced. It has no rigid rules; there is no right way to do it. It is not something that has to be analyzed or defined to master, because it is the most natural action that a human being can take.
It would take a long time for me to realize, but running has always sat as the common denominator of me. The core of my identity. Going for a run grounds me when I’m afraid, and it comforts me when I’m alone. Love and running has taught me a pure sort of joy; the type of joy that I now strive for every day.
There have been moments where running became more than just my sport. At the best and worst of times, the act of running has grown into my whole heart.
—
I was just a little kid when my family took a trip to Iceland. There’s one story that my parents love to tell about the end of a long day on that trip, after we had been on our feet and exploring for hours. Exhaustion permeated the air as we were hiking back towards our car; we were just about to reach the top of a big downhill. But I just looked down at the winding path ahead of us, and there was only one way that I wanted to cross that dream of a landscape. I turned to my parents- young eyes so suddenly bright- and I said, “Can I run?”
My parents shared an exasperated look in their fatigue. I had always jumped at the opportunity to run when we were walking anywhere. Whenever we walked through our hometown, my mom would tell me I could run to the next stop sign, or a specific bench; just far enough to catch a whiff of the thrill. I chased my friends who rode on scooters in the playground, and I switched my position in soccer from defense to midfield so I could run more. I wouldn’t consciously realize that running was what I desired for many more years, but whenever my body was in motion, I knew.
—
After I finished my mile around the track, I would hold my dad’s watch weakly in my hands so I could time him as he had timed me. And I would watch as he ran where I had jogged, and pushed where I had struggled. I’d see the watch report times that were far faster than what I was able to run, and I would wonder if anyone had ever run faster than my father was running right there on that track, and I would imagine myself pushing that hard, and I would dream about being faster than I was. Yes: Even though my lungs were already heaving and my heart was pounding, I could not think of anything besides running even farther and faster, of running beyond my imagination. And so I was a runner.
—
Running is a sport that seems to make millions shudder with fear and disgust due to their limited encounters with it. This is largely our culture’s popular modern understanding of the sport, and I am confident that you or someone you know has expressed their abject horror at the idea of running further than a block or two.
But running is also a sport whose existence inspires thousands to push themselves far beyond their preconceived limits, driving people to drag themselves across finish lines with broken limbs and crushed dreams, to run races that were created to destroy spirits, to wake up and jog out into the world while the whole city is still asleep. The sport has allowed people who had originally viewed themselves as non-athletes, nerds, and unfit outcasts to find places for themselves in communities centered on fitness and competition, to allow them to compete directly alongside those who are considered the “elites” or “professionals” in their sport. As for those “elites”, the sport can build them up into revered gods of speed, only to tear them back down both physically and mentally, leaving many with nothing tangible to show for it, and perhaps even leaving some with less good character and maturity than they had initially carried into the sport.
This I know, because I have seen all of these stories unfold before me so many times. I have seen people who had never known what it meant to be respected by their peers earn that respect by clawing and fighting for it every day, even if all their hard work never seemed to provide them with the success they so yearned for. I have watched how different people can react to similar failures in the sport, with some rising above it by growing and changing past it, and others finding true victory and happiness by giving the sport up entirely. I have listened to runners who told me about pain, and thrill, and how those two things were so necessary to enhance the experience of the other. I have heard long tales told by talkative teammates about the reasons why they train, to prove something to either themselves or to provide something special for someone else, and I have discerned more tales by carefully observing their quieter peers. I understand what this sport, as well as the role of being a student-athlete within said sport, can do to a person.
But more than any of that, I have come to know myself within this sport. I have seen how it has shaped and taught me; felt how it has made me understand truths about myself, truths so intimate that they break my heart. Running has shown me victory and defeat, and the strong swirling emotions that come with both, that can pin you down and impale you with grief or raise you up and turn your whole life into a ray of sunshine. Running has come to define an entire era of my life, and I both yearn and shudder to dream of what I might have been without it. In the years that have passed, running has held so much meaning to me that I hesitate to think that I’m even half the writer I need to be to properly put it all into words.
But I will try.
Welcome, dear reader. This is my ode to running. I hope you enjoy it.