Hard to believe, but for the past 18 years (since April 16th, 1982, to be exact) I have considered myself a runner. Although I rarely ever ran 7 days a week, I started most weeks hoping I would. I loved running with an unparalleled passion, and at times, to the detriment of other things. The simple act of setting my alarm for an hour or more earlier than I needed to, just so I could put on my Saucony Jazz and head out the door defined a big part of who I was. I was never the fastest, and could never run the longest, but I was always a runner.
All that changed during this morning's run, and I felt as if the world came crashing down on me. I found myself reflecting more on recent times than "The good old days." When every run was fresh, and unique. This whole year of running has been mostly uninspired, and I haven't really been able to figure out why. I've been shutting off my alarm more often these past few months, and opting for my pillow over my singlet. Most weeks I have struggled to reach the 20-mile plateau. It's just not been so fun lately. In fact, some runs have been downright boring, and I've been struggling with reasons to continue.
So this morning, in the middle of my run, I decided that it was time to call it quits, at least for now.
As I ran around the neighborhood for the last time, it was a bittersweet trip, to say the very least. I soaked in everything I could of the elements that had brought me so much pleasure over the years. Once I realized, half way through this morning's run, that it would soon be over, I struggled with my entire identity. "The Roads Scholar retires from Running" does not make a promising essay. But I have always run for me, and running has not been fun. So I was good with my decision.
I soaked in everything on my last loop around the neighborhood as a runner. I recalled how I had given the roads a test drive by foot before we made an offer on the house. I needed to know these roads were good for running before I could know that this home was a good for living. I wondered if my years of compiled runner's logs would still hold the same value for me, the former runner. I reflected on the ever-changing seasons that the runner becomes so acutely aware of. We get so fine-tuned to the elements that we can tell the temperature as soon as we step out the door. We can feel the difference between 68 degrees and 70 degrees, and even throw in the relative humidity for good measure.
My daughter, soon to be 17, has never known me as anything but a runner. The same can be said for Harriet, who on Sunday, I take as my wife. Many of my best friends are runners, and some of my fondest memories have been created during runs with other people. I hope we can all still be friends once they find out that today, I quit running.
So what does the future bring? I can't say for sure. I may miss the routine of getting up, getting dressed, and doing my dance on the roads that once beckoned, but lately have just lethargically lain there. Some day, I might once again yearn for the freedom and lack of routine I've practiced for the past 18 years, which was just running however I felt like running that day. I may miss being a runner.
But tomorrow, I will wake a different person than I have been. I'll wake up with an agenda, with a plan. My alarm will still go off early, and I'll still slip on my shoes and slip out the door. I'll still tour the neighborhood on foot, aware of the degrees and the humidity, following the same routes I've traversed since I moved here. But tomorrow, I will not run, because today, I quit running.
Tomorrow, I train.
Copyright Michael Selman