I Can't Outrun Running

Last summer, I interviewed a man Bruno, the founder of a Catholic motorcycle group at a local parish. I was clueless about everything connected to motorcycle riding, so I was naturally apprehensive. The interview, however, had gone pretty well. Bruno was well prepared and came armed with printouts and several prayer cards the group had used throughout the years. He was eager to share his fond memories of an activity he couldn’t do anymore after hip surgery.

As we were wrapping up, I glanced at my questions list with its immaculate teal print (well, immaculate compared to my sloppy cursive notes scrawled on a legal pad during the interview) and asked my final question: “Motorcycles and religion… I don’t think many people would initially put the two together. How do you combine spirituality during your rides?”

Without missing a beat, Bruno says, “Well, I think that’s pretty simple. It’s hard not to think about your religion when you’re surrounded by nature.”

 An answer that the Romantic poets would eat up. 

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” he asked me. I shook my head. “You should. There’s nothing like experiencing the world through the seat of a motorcycle.” 

I told Bruno that it must be a great feeling, knowing that I, who was terrified of motorcycles, would never try out for myself.

It wasn’t until well after the interview that I realized I didn’t need a motorcycle to experience that sublimity. It could be reached through hard work, sweat, and trusting that God can help you do things you could have never imagined. 

I already experienced this sublimity for seven years running cross country. 

***

“MARY QUEEN OF VICTORY!”

“PRAY FOR US!”

“PROTECT US FROM ALL INJURY!”

“AMEN!”

“CHAMPIONS ON THREE!” Everyone places their hands in the middle of our deformed circle whose figure was something between a misguided oval and a chubby banana.  “ONE, TWO, THREE!”

“champions,” we whisper (except for some freshman who shouted this) as we pull our hands away triumphantly. Now that we are properly warmed up, prayed up, and hyped up, we jog over to the start line.

It didn’t matter what conditions laid ahead of us: if the weather was pouring or sleeting, the sun was shining, or if it was 95 degrees or 45 degrees (and yes, we raced in both extremes). We always started with that prayer. Perhaps it was the echoes of the prayers that prepared me for what the race had in store. 

The jogs back to the start line were filled with excitement from the buzz of hundreds of runners. Being packed into tiny, spray-painted grass boxes, you fed off the energy of those around you. But the voices that surrounded me on the outside could only drown out the voice in my mind for so long: the voice of doubt that questioned the absurdity of what I was about to do. 

Why would you run around in circles? My speech and debate coach asked me and my brothers when we couldn’t compete in a tournament that overlapped with a meet (because, luckily, an activity that revolved around public speaking wasn’t crazy).

That sounds so hard. My co-workers said when I explained why I couldn’t work Saturdays in the fall.

My own memories taunt me: finishing last in the mile in elementary school. Finishing last in parochial school track meets by a lap and feeling the eyes of parents, dragged-along siblings, and peers as they watched me finish alone because I was a lap behind everyone else. By the time I was in high school, I kissed my track career goodbye and never looked back. 

Yet, here I was. Why would I do this when I disliked track, and cross country is just a longer form of track?

“Runners, to your marks!” We all inch up, muddy spikes grazing the white paint. The air, void of sound, is heavy with tension. One could hear a pin drop as we waited for a singular sound that would catapult all of the motion of the next three miles.

The gun goes off. In mere seconds, the start line is abandoned by the spikes and sneakers that had covered every inch of it. I tap my watch to document this journey of winding hills, rain, and potentially hopeless ambitions.

Why would I do this? The answer, ironically and unironically, was why wouldn’t I?

***

Standing in front of the treadmill, the race of one is about to begin. It’s a far cry from the grassy, scenic scapes I used to run.

I inhale deeply as I stare down my foe: those blinking lights, the digitized numbers creeping down. I can’t do this. My real foe rears its ugly head.

I can’t. Deep breath, fire up my Apple Watch with the familiar 3,2,1.

Shakily, I’m off.

***

My watch buzzes delightfully, meaning the first mile is complete. The past eight and a half minutes schooled me that my pie-in-the-sky folly would not carry me to the finish line. “I can do this” was lost somewhere between the softball fields and the woodsy area (there is always a woodsy area to run through, no matter how open a course might be. There will be a dense conglomeration of trees awaiting you somewhere). There was only “I am doing this.”

Why am I doing this? The easiest answer would be because my brothers also ran cross country. If my brothers were doing it, then I was too. 

And I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t true. Cross country was one of many activities my brothers and I all did. Since we were all close in age there would be a sort of “Pierson dynasty” of activities we would all do, whether that was the four of us altar serving almost every 4:30 vigil for six years, taking over the West Iowa circuit in Speech and Debate, or banding together to win the Battle of the Books competition. That’s who we were – and cross country was no different. In fact, one of my greatest joys with the sport was zigzagging across the course to watch my brothers and cheer them on in their races that immediately followed mine. 

But someone can only make you go so far before you call it quits. Your siblings’ participation would not sustain anyone in this sport for seven years. You have to love it or else you will quit before the season ends. There were plenty of girls my freshman year who joined because of their parents, friends, you name it, who walked the moment the coaches’ eyes turned away during practices (which was frequent if you were not varsity) and eventually walked away.

Because when you’re in the race, there’s no one left. It’s only you and the course.

Well, you, the course, and your mind.

***

My foot clops to the one mile mark sub 11. Part of me laments for my former self. Part of me chastises myself for choosing to sleep in so many times instead of conquering the course. Isn’t that what my teammates and I used to do each summer?

My family members are now 1000 miles away from me. 

The blinking lap begins anew. I guess that means I should keep going, too.

***

I once heard someone say that running is 90% a mental sport – which is so true. You can show up for hundreds of practices but if your mind gives a doubt, the race is blown. 

“You’re almost done!” some parent shouts out misguidedly. I had checked my watch a couple of minutes prior. I was maybe at 1.75, which was not almost done. I wearily glanced at the giant hill that awaited me to scale it. This is when the hell of the sport settled it: you were in too deep to have the energy to go on but nowhere near the finish line. I want to quit.

My breaths are labored. Slouched over, my pace is slower than what it was for the first mile. It is no longer about getting the PR. I decide it’s no longer about me either.  It’s about crossing the finish line.

I can’t do it. This time, I mean it. I can’t do it, Lord. I offer this to You. It’s in Your hands.

***

I want to hit the emergency STOP on the treadmill. In this race of one, I will finish first and last no matter what, so what’s the point of continuing?

I can’t give up. I’m not a quitter. Lord, I offer this race to You.

***

“We’re almost there!” one of my teammates shouts as she runs by. 

Another girl who sports a purple singlet goes by and we exchange affirmations – an acknowledgement of each other’s efforts. I loved that part of cross country: for as individualized as the running is, (at least at the JV level) I felt a kinship with all the runners, even the "competition". For the length of a 5K, we were all survivors of the same pain and the same glory: why wouldn’t we try to at least do that together? If you’re in the top 25, you likely weren’t taking the time to say “good job” to everyone you passed. Here in the comfortable mid-150’s it’s all encouragement. 

I look at my Apple Watch. 2.85 miles. Finally, I’m actually almost at the finish line. 

It’s time to fly.

I was never a sprinter in track because I couldn’t approach a 100-meter dash without pacing myself. The last stretch of a cross country meet though? During the best sprints at the end, or “kick” as I called them, it felt like an out-of-body experience. It’s all for You.

It’s all for You. My arms start pumping harder, carrying my feet with a confidence they otherwise would never experience. I squint to see the digital clock methodically noting the finishing times, the blue mat whose end marked the end of this experience. 

My watch greets the third mile of the race with a buzz, which gives my body permission to soar as fast as I can. I think of what worries me – my grades, future, people who have put me down – I got this, It’s all for You, all for You, allforYou – and dash down the finish line, my feet hopping down until the blue mat ends and my racing chip solidifies the ending of the race.

That’s when my adrenaline battery dies. I stumble (looking drunk, I’m sure) onto an open patch of grass and promptly collapse. My breath heaves as my mind frantically worries I could have gone faster, I could have done better. 

“Ann?” Mom and Dad find me even amid the sea of collapsed JV girls. They were there – they were always there – ready to help me up. “Great job!”

For a second, I stay down on the ground, catching my breath and praying Lord, I trust this was enough. Or else the doubts will never leave me.

I take my dad’s hand as he pulls me up. “Thank you,” I say, hugging my parents.

***

Before I finished this piece, I went for a run. I told myself it was research for this essay, to capture the sublimity of running, but my run failed to capture any of those ideals. I began anxiously, not confidently. After the first mile, I wanted to quit. After two miles, I really wanted to quit. After two and a half miles, I was ready to die. When I finished at three miles, I was actually dead. 

I didn’t feel any of those things Bruno talked about with motorcycling. I could blame it on the treadmill and the not-so-scenic view of Flather Hall, or on the absence of comradery. It could be all my fault or everything else’s fault.

 But it just wasn’t a good day. If the run was a prayer, it was spiritually dry. Afterwards, for a moment, I felt fraudulent for comparing this sport to a spiritual experience.

But I’m not a fraud – no two runs, just like no two lives, are the same. This account was melded together from dozens of memories and connections I’ve had to the sport since I was 11 years old. It’s easier to reflect on the runs that ended with a sense of fulfillment or a new personal best. It’s harder to remember that many of my runs were mundane and a lot of days I did hate cross country, but these days didn’t change how I felt in the end. 

Yes, my run last night was terrible and dry, but I trust that God doesn’t let any of this go to waste. Maybe it built endurance. Maybe it cleared my head or this misguided prayer helped someone else. I have to trust that I left all out there on the course (or, I guess, treadmill).

Sometimes, a run just has to be a run. 

Some days, that just has to be enough.