It's nearly
summertime, but the living isn't easy -- not if you're suffering
from a 401(k) meltdown. Life, in fact, is hard, and only getting
harder.
And when life
gets tough, the tough get running.
While gym
memberships are down and personal trainers are getting the boot,
running is making a major comeback according to race directors and
shoe retailers.
It's easy to
see why. Running is an inexpensive activity that requires little in
the way of equipment -- a decent pair of shoes, shorts, socks and a
T-shirt and you're ready. The playing field is any free land,
sidewalk, park or road. (It's not surprising that America's first
running craze was born of the economic malaise of the 1970s.) And
most cities and towns have at least one running club, an informal
group that meets for distance runs and interval workouts. In short,
running is one of the cheapest forms of exercise a body can do.
But running is
not just exercise. It's a great stress reliever and an inexpensive
source of neurotransmitters like dopamine that wash the body with
good feelings. In stressful times, running can literally make us
happy. Thus, being a runner is both an emotional and biochemical
commitment.
Of course, some
people "jog" purely for fitness purposes and hate it. This might
explain why the French were recently in an uproar after photos
surfaced of President Nicolas Sarkozy in shorts and a T-shirt
breaking a sweat in the Tuileries. Running is an American activity,
the French press claimed, a fascistic act designed to manage and
control the body. Not an intellectual pursuit at all. "It is about
performance and individualism," one writer wrote, right-wing values
antithetical to everything cherished by the country that gave us
foie gras.
Perhaps so. Yet
once infected by the running bug, it's hard to find a cure.
During the
winter in New York I would routinely encounter a man who ran the
loop of Central Park shirtless, no matter the weather. I once saw
him in the middle of a 22-inch snowstorm when I thought I'd be the
only one crazy enough to venture outside. Yet the park was filled
with runners.
Another time my
training partner burst into tears in the middle of a run because his
girlfriend had just dumped him. Rather than stopping, he picked up
the pace, until the two of us were flying down the mall in
Washington, D.C., in the middle of a blistering hot day, silent and
relentless, burning away the sorrow.
All runners
have stories, many of them bizarre or off-color. In law school I ran
with a world-class, 5,000 meter runner who disclosed he was stoned
in the middle of a 13-mile run (apparently a common training
technique for him).
At the Olympic
trials in Charlotte, N.C., in 1996, marathoner Bob Kempainen vomited
a bright green stream of Gatorade on national television, then
calmly accelerated (running a 4:44 mile) and sprinted to victory.
World record-holder Grete Waitz did her business on the side of the
road, then pulled up her shorts and went on to win the 1984 New York
City Marathon. Every runner has a tale about a port-a-potty just
missed, a coffee that wouldn't stay down, a blister that burst and
filled a sock with blood. We tell the stories with pride, metaphors
for our own indomitability.
None of us, of
course, can beat back disease, debilitation or death. Running may
temporarily relieve our stress, but it's sure to take its toll on
our knees and hips and the fatigue of constant training can have a
depressant effect.
Yet imagine the
runner, alone on the road, his footfalls on gravel in sync with his
breathing. He is swift and fast and focused. His arms pump in steady
cadence. His knees rise in regular rhythm.
There is
nothing on his mind but how his fingers feel as they brush his palm,
his toes as they kiss the edge of his shoes, his calves as they
whisper against each other with every stride. He is man, machine,
spirit. Watch him fly.