I thought I'd break away from the political scene today to examine the practice of running. The Quad Cities has a big race coming up next week - the BIX 7. Although I'm not running the race this year, I am still running occasionally. And I still find myself asking the big question that so many non-runners ask of runners - Why? Here's a look at the sport from the somewhat twisted viewpoint of a runner:
Although I’ve been running for many years, I still find myself asking, “Why am I doing this?” That question boiled to the surface a couple of years ago at one of the BIX at 6 training runs. As the 92-degree air sapped my strength, and the sweat poured down my face and into my eyes, I limped up the McClellan Blvd hill and spotted my good friend Greg. As I pulled alongside him, about the only thing I had the strength to say was, “I hate running.” I don’t really, but at the time, I had a severe distaste for whoever invented Nike. Sitting in my air-conditioned office now, I feel differently, but the question still looms large - why do runners run?
What follows is an inside look into the mind of a typical runner. My hope is to help answer that big question: Why?
SATURDAY, 7:30AM:
It’s hard to describe the thoughts racing through your mind as you wade through the sea of humanity, awaiting the start of one of the biggest road races in the Midwest. For many of the thousands around you, it’s an oversized, sweaty party waiting to happen. For others, it’s a casual stroll – a little jogging, a little walking – through the streets of Davenport. But for you, it’s an intense time of anticipation. A time of a thousand questions and wonderings. Have I trained enough? Are my shoes tied tight? What is that smell? Am I really ready for the pain of the next hour? And maybe the biggest question of all: Why am I here?
The band suddenly stops. It’s 7:55 and a hush descends as Jack Carey pipes out “The Star Spangled Banner.” Thousands of eyes stare ahead at the imposing site known as Brady Street Hill, ascending endlessly up – one of the most difficult race starts in the country. Thousands of spectator eyes stare back at you. The runners all around inhale deeply. The mass of flesh presses even tighter, inching closer to the start line. Your heart beats wildly in anticipation. The rush is amazing. Suddenly it’s time - the starter yells and you’re off.
So what is this fascination with running? Why do so many men and women have this insatiable drive to risk their comfort, their time, and a big chunk of change to circle a small piece of real estate in eastern Iowa? Does it make much sense that almost 20,000 runners of healthy body and questionable mind will rise at 6:00 on a Saturday morning and line up on Brady Street like cattle going to slaughter? At the sound of the gun, these 20,000 human beings will begin an extended period of gruesome bodily punishment. Later that morning, these same 20,000 humans will stop running within a few blocks of where the painful ritual began. Common sense would ask, “Why didn’t all of you just park a little closer and walk a few blocks to the post-race party?” Seems like you would have saved a lot of time, you could have slept in, and the pain pulsating through your body could have been saved for more sensible activities like hitting your thumb with a hammer.
After most races, my mouth feels like a mixture of desert sand and partially dried cement. My shirt and shorts are drenched with sticky sweat. My gut throbs and my legs ache. And wow, how the joys of running fill my head. In the middle of that mixture of bodily fluids and thoughts, the big question always hovers – Why? Why do runners do it? What could possibly motivate a sane person to lace up a pair of Nikes, put on a skimpy pair of shorts and beat his legs senseless for an hour or two on a surface created for Michelin and Goodyear, not New Balance and Adidas? What sadistic, inconceivable thrill can be found in punishing the human body in such a way? I’m not sure, but let me think about it some more.
SATURDAY, 8:05AM
The human wall of sweaty skin surges up Brady Street. Most of the first mile is straight uphill. By the time you reach the top and make the turn onto Kirkwood Boulevard, you seriously question your state of mind when you signed that entry form last month. Your mouth is dry, your breathing comes in gasps and you wonder why you haven’t passed the one-mile marker yet. Then, just ahead, you hear the race volunteer calling out the mile times. A dry grimace forms on your lips as you realize you’ve hardly even begun – there are 6 more treacherous miles to go.
A level straightaway, then gradual down hill for the next mile or so allows you to catch your breath and make up some of the time you lost weaving uphill through the maze of bodies. By the time you hear the second mile split, you’ve had a small drink of water, stepped on 42 paper cups and passed 13 lawn parties full of beer-drinking frolickers who are grateful to be watching your pain from the sidelines. Envy sweeps over your aching body, but it’s all good – you’re still running downhill and your body hasn’t given up yet. Delusional thoughts of catching the leaders tickles at your mind until you realize they’re rounding the halfway point about now.
I suppose running for sport is not unlike climbing mountains. Last year I read John Krakauer’s book, “Into Thin Air,” the story of his expedition to the top of Mount Everest, the highest point on the planet. In the early part of the book, he explores the age-old question of “Why.” Why do some men and women have this insatiable drive to risk their lives – nearly 200 climbers have died attempting to reach Everest’s summit – and a great deal of money – a climber could spend over $60,000 to be guided to the top of the world – to stand on a very small piece of land in southern Asia? On the surface of it, it just seems very strange that they start at the bottom, spend up to six weeks getting to the top, then end up right back where they started. Wouldn’t it make more sense to hire a helicopter to drop them off at the top, leave them for a couple of hours to take a few pictures, then pick them up? So much less work, so much cheaper, and the inside of the helicopter is heated. So, why? You’ve heard the answer: “Because it’s there.” That’s what they’ve been telling us for years. This answer doesn’t make a lot of sense to many – but I’m guessing it does to most runners. We train for hours and hours, pushing our bodies to painful limits, then do the same thing in a race. Whether you’re a casual runner whose goal is to finish a race, or a fierce competitor who’s out to better your time or beat your neighbor, there’s something in every runner that pushes us to conquer some unseen hurdle, some massive Everest looming large above us.
SATURDAY, 8:24AM
At about 2 ½ miles, you’re feeling pretty good. It’s been downhill since the mile marker. You’ve made up a lot of time from the first long mile and you’re ready to start catching all those runners in front of you. Then suddenly, reality smacks you cold in the face. Not only are the lead runners flying past you on their way home, but you’re forced to climb your own version of Mount Everest known as McClellan Blvd. All the way up this wretched road, your legs scream at you, your lungs curse you with what little breath still remains, and last night’s supper reminds you that you should have had the mild sauce. But wait, you’re finally at the top and this blissful road gracefully slopes downward to the turnaround point. But even going downhill, you find your body hating you as you’re overwhelmed with the thought that you’re not even halfway done. You dream of where the leaders are by now – maybe at the top of Brady Street, ready for that final downhill home. Envy strikes again and you long to be one of them.
Up ahead, you hear the three-mile timer calling out every other second. Your mind tries to do the math to see if you’re on pace to beat last year’s time, but the mind is beginning to go other places. Forget the time, I just hope to survive. Waves of younger, faster runners fly past you going the other way. You look for someone you know, someone who shouldn’t be beating you, someone to motivate you to go faster. You spot a friend from work and your motivation turns to jealousy as you realize he’s going to finish ahead of you and his pain will end sooner. But your envy dies as you see the water tables lining the turnaround. You slow your pace to get a drink and make the turn. It feels good to slow. I could get used to this.
Suddenly, your mind clears and you remember you have a goal. Yes, that’s it – the answer, at least in part, to the question. The “Why” of all of this pain is the great longing in so many to attain something beyond us. Never mind that it makes no sense to start and end in the same place and waste a good hour or two doing it. It doesn’t matter that you could be home sleeping, or that you literally want to hurl your guts right now. And you know that in the end you’re not going to win the race. None of that matters because you’re giving your all for some- thing you set out to accomplish. Almost no one will notice what you’re doing. The paper will carry your name in small print, but few will see it. But you’re not doing it for anyone else. You’re running because it’s there, because you can, and because somewhere along the way you set a goal and convinced yourself you could reach that goal. And no amount of pain, cramping, hills or heat is going to keep you from giving your all toward that goal.
The marathon is named after the ancient Greek city of Marathon. The story is told that in 490 B.C., the under-manned Greeks defeated a massive Persian army on the plains of Marathon. A runner was sent to the city of Athens, 25 miles away. His goal was clear: to deliver the good news of the victory. Legend has it that he stated, “Rejoice, we conquer,” and fell to the ground dead. The goal, and sanity, of every marathoner since has been questionable.
Last year, the brother of a good friend of mine ran the Leadville 100 - a 100 mile ultra marathon in the mountains of Colorado that starts at an altitude of 9200 feet and ascends up to 12,600 feet. The winning time last year was 15 hours, 42 minutes, 59 seconds. Some might ask, “What is wrong with you!?” Hundreds of athletes train for months or years for the annual Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii each year – a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride and a 26.2 mile run. Why? The specific answer may be different for everyone. But most of these athletes are driven by something more than total insanity. They long for the challenge of the unattainable; the beating of the unbeatable; the accomplishment of something they, or, in some cases, no one else, has ever done before. This challenge instills within the runner a drive to push him or herself to achieve something considered utterly foolish to many.
SATURDAY, 8:32AM
Four miles into your aching adventure you find yourself almost flying down McClellan Blvd because there’s no other way to go down a sheer drop like that. You check your time at the marker and realize you’re a bit behind where you want to be. No problem – you’re going down- hill, so you pick it up. Not so bad for the next couple of blocks. But, all of a sudden, you begin to wonder where your legs picked up that extra 20 pounds. You lean forward, hoping to attack the uphill version of Kirkwood Blvd. But your lean doesn’t compensate for the fatigue that has begun to consume you. And it doesn’t help that this gradual hill is becoming less gradual. Half- way up, crazy, random thoughts bombard your mind again as the pain continues to bombard your body. Why did I pay $30 for this punishment – I could be at a fancy breakfast with my wife right now for that. How can these spectators be smiling when I feel so miserable? Hey – don’t you pass me – you’re just some high school kid.
Just before Bridge Avenue, the uphill grows steeper. Your body tries desperately to convince you to stop as your mind asks again, Why am I doing this? Then you remember again – because it’s there. Because you have a goal. Because you know that any goal worth achieving takes hard work. Because you’ve been here before and you know what it will feel like after you finish. And remembering that feeling, you lean forward and press on – past the pain, past the doubt, past the fear, past the 5-mile marker.
SATURDAY, 8:48AM
Suddenly, you’re at the top of the Kirkwood Blvd hill and Brady Street is just two blocks away. Your foggy mind stumbles back to last year. I think the 6-mile marker is just around the corner, then it’s downhill a little past that. Your legs feel like string cheese, your gut aches more than you can ever remember, your breathing is labored, but your mind surges with new energy. You look around and people are cheering. The streets are lined with fans - your fans. You don’t know any of them, and you’re nowhere near the front of the pack, but they’re cheering for you. You pass the 6-mile marker and grab one last cup of water from a volunteer as a crooked, painful smile creeps over your face. You’re going to make it. The road slopes downward and your legs churn faster. You spot the high school kid who passed you two miles ago and your eyes bore into his back – you’re mine. As you pass him, he looks at you and the race is on. The winners finished long ago and hundreds of runners are in front of you, but your self-appointed duel is the most important event in Davenport right now.
Halfway down the hill, the two of you are neck and neck. He surges ahead just past the final Palmer College building, but your surge of adrenaline pushes you past him two blocks later. Back and forth it goes as your body screams at you to let up. But your mind overrides your deter- iorating body’s complaints. Your Goal has just taken on a new twist and there’s no way this runner you’ve never met is going to cross that line ahead of you.
Two blocks from the bottom of the hill, a disastrous remembrance crushes your spirit: The race doesn’t end at the starting line! There are three long, grueling blocks to go after the turn. Your mind suddenly reels again. For a brief moment, you’re quite content to let this no-name beat you. I don’t give a rip about my time. I don’t care if wonder kid here whips me. I don’t even care if I finish – I just want to feel good again. But as you make the turn ten feet behind your rival, you reach for that one thing that makes all great people great: perseverance. You’ve come too far to quit now. Three blocks more – 60 more seconds of agony and grief. Your body responds to this new surge and the kid’s shirt comes into focus again. There’ll be no special prize for beating him – no trophies or medals. But he has become your goal and your legs move like they never have before. Two blocks from the finish banner, he’s 5 feet away. You glance up and see that there are hundreds of spectators watching you. They’re yelling and screaming and you realize they’re cheering for you. Your pain is screaming back at them but the true competitor deep inside you can’t let them down. You have to give it your all.
SATURDAY, 8:50AM
A block from the line you catch him. He looks over at you and you know the competitor inside him can’t let the crowd, or himself, down either. He surges and you match his surge. Twenty feet to go and your arms brush. Just as your lungs and gut are about to burst, it’s over. You’ve done it – you’ve absolutely done it!
You bend over in agony, unable to walk. The friendly finish line volunteer asks if you’re OK. You nod, then slowly straighten and, with the last few ounces of strength you can find in your body, you walk slowly through the chute. The high school kid in the chute next to you congratulates you for tying him. Somewhere in your mind’s haze you look at your watch and smile – you’ve beaten your best time by 16 seconds.
Standing in that finishing chute, body aching from head to toe, legs feeling like bungee chords, head feeling faint, you realize, in a twisted kind of way, that this is why you run. Some- thing deep inside you recognizes you’ve just done something amazing. You’ve pushed yourself beyond what even you thought you could do and that insane, illogical drive suddenly makes total sense.
So, the BIX 7 is coming. Thousands of runners around the world know this, and for many, reading that sentence just sent a surge of adrenaline through their blood. The need to conquer is beginning to rumble inside. The anticipation of attaining that nearly unreachable goal will drive them right now to lace up their Nikes, strap on their watch and head down the long training road that eventually leads to Brady Street. Maybe I’ll see you there (as a spectator this year).