Run-ishment

(TW / CW / Idk exactly what these mean, but I know you put them at the beginning of a thing to warn people about upsetting stuff: eating disorders and exercise as self-harm.)

I started running initially because I hated myself. That sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I was around 15 years old, the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. I had only recently begun hating myself because I had only recently learned that I wasn’t, by the standards of the early 2000s, good enough. Turns out, I was not good enough because I was fat.

It all started with a conversation in the library. A few months earlier, I had confessed to a friend that I had a crush on a guy at school.

“Oh no,” she said gently, trying to save me from the guarantee of my future dashed hopes. “He really only dates a certain kind of girl.”

“Certain kind? What kind?” I asked.

She paused, searching for the right word, wanting to be kind. Her brow furrowed and finally she decided.

“Soccer girls,” she said. “You know, girls who look like soccer girls.”

I knew what soccer girls looked like. Thin, lithe, thighs separated by negative space and the swish of their shiny shorts. I was crushed because I understood perfectly what she meant but chose to save us both the embarrassment of saying it out loud.

I did not look like a soccer girl. I was fat. And so I ran.

I loaded up my pink iPod mini with illegally downloaded music from LimeWire (the statute of limitations on that crime has run, right??), threw on whatever footwear I had that passed for gym shoes, and took off through my neighborhood. I had no speed or stamina at first. It was also summer in Texas, which meant the outdoors felt like standing under the heat lamp that kept the fries hot at McDonald’s. 

I always chose to run at the hottest, most punishing part of the day on purpose, believing if I sweated more, I would shrink away and become thinner. It worked. I lost 50 pounds over the course of a few months, coupled with incredibly strict dieting that bordered on anorexia. 

I mean, I was technically eating. Just not a lot. And nothing fun. It was all grilled chicken, ground turkey, vegetables, and very few carbs. Nothing to drink but water or unsweetened tea. No sugar. No salt. No fat. It was the kind of restrictive regimen that would maybe be ok for a week or two, but I did it for a long stretch of around 9 months. 

Eating better was fine and all, but where I really felt like I was making the most progress was on the pavement. When I lost motivation during a punishing run, my inner voice wasn’t saying, “Get back out there and try again, champ.” It was like, “Of course you can’t run that far or that fast, you’re a big fat piece of crap.”

To put it plainly, my inner voice was a dick. 

It stayed that way - rude and loud - throughout high school and well into college. Running wasn’t a fun, endorphin-providing adventure I could enjoy. It was self-imposed lashings set to pop music. 

I spent my freshman year of college — the second half where I was actually in college in New Orleans — eating the bare minimum in the school cafeteria then running mile after mile at Audubon Park across from campus. The running trail, known as the Audubon Park Loop, is a gorgeous 3.4 mile stretch that takes you under incredible live oaks and beside the famous Audubon Zoo. I have what I believe to be a clear memory of a giraffe poking its head out over a fence, but like a lot of memories, this could just be wishful thinking that has snuck its way into my subconscious.

Even there, in one of the most incredible cities in the world, at one of the most historical times ever — just six months after the city was ravaged by Katrina — on one of the city’s best running trails, I still had a singular focus during my runs: pain. What should have been a pleasant daily trot through an incredible atmosphere was a punishing, head-down sweat fest with a VERY emotional soundtrack.

You ever heard of the band Blue October? If not, let me save you some trouble. The songwriter of the band struggled with mental illness, drug addictions, and broken relationships, and the music is pretty much only about that. It’s what the characters in the film High Fidelity called “sad bastard music.” That record, featuring the joyously titled single Hate Me, was the audio backdrop for my daily self-flagellation on the trail. 

That was 2007. Over the next fourteen years, I went back to that well of pain and punishment at various times in my life as a form of self-control. When I finally admitted to myself it was harmful, I quit altogether and went for stretches of months or even years without ever lacing up my shoes.

It’s been hard to strike a balance between doing something I genuinely enjoy and doing that thing until it hurts. But thankfully, with time and healing and therapy, in recent years, my inner voice has retired. Maybe he’s died all together, I'm not sure. Either way, I no longer hear a barking drill sergeant with an acid tongue between my ears. Instead, it’s been pretty quiet up there. Perhaps he’s been drowned out by my more upbeat running playlists.

Today I ran eight miles at a pretty good clip. There were zero times on today’s run where I felt the need to hurt myself or punish my body. In fact, I used a guided run from the Nike Run Club app with a gentle voice that guided me through the workout to make sure I paced myself properly. In between the coach’s pointers and pep talks, I took time to enjoy the feeling of my feet on the pavement and take in my surroundings.

I originally planned on running the White Rock Lake Trail, but once I arrived, it was PACKED. Instead, I found an offshoot trail labeled “SoPac.” So named for the unused Southern Pacific rail bed that once ran its length, the trail was quiet and mostly empty, save for a few families and zooming cyclists that clipped past me.

It’s tree lined and has a gentle grade, so it made for a perfectly lovely running spot. It’s no Audubon Park. I saw no giraffes. But I did notice an unspooled VHS tape that had been drug like a ribbon along a cluster of trees. Beside that was a McDonalds bag and several sandwich wrappers. I imagined someone had reclaimed an incriminating video of themselves, maybe an embarrassing student film or some unsavory footage of a night they’d like to leave behind. Tape in hand, they came to this quiet spot to destroy the cassette and celebrate with like five or six McChickens. 

Good for you, I thought.

I did 4 miles out and 4 back, which means I got a second shot to admire my surroundings on the return trip. I took in a small playground adjacent to some apartments, an abandoned pink bike, a man in a khaki trench coat sitting on a bench with a suitcase. It wasn’t exciting with giraffes poking through the trees, but it wasn’t boring either. It was nice.

The run coach had me kick up my pace in the final few miles, challenging me to run a few hundred yards at my faster 5k pace, then a few hundred more at my even quicker one-mile pace. When I got to the final few steps, my legs were tired, but I couldn’t stop. I made it off the trail and into a nearby neighborhood. I passed two kids buying ice cream from an ice cream truck. 

The first kid clutched his ice cream bar in his hand, squishing the package between his fingers. The other little kid was still finishing his transaction.

The first kid pushed his glasses up on his nose and cheered, “Come on!”

Likely he was rushing his friend, but instead, I imagined he said it to me. 

After a few more yards, my watched buzzed, letting me know I finally crossed the 8 mile threshold. I slowed to a walk and let my lips curl into a smile. I shut off the noise from my headphones, quieting both the running coach and Taylor Swift, and walked circles around the parking lot cooling down. 

Across the way, a family had propped up their toddler on a blanket beside a tree. Mom and dad stood by, throwing a frisbee to a bigger kid who alternately tucked his hands into his tiny Gap sweatshirt. Another couple chattered as they walked to their car with their Irish setter, discussing dinner plans and how cold it had gotten since the sun went down.

I could hear cars zooming by on the nearby road. Music from a speaker strapped to the handlebars of a passing cyclist reached past me and into the trees. I heard the honk of a horn as someone locked their car.

Then somewhere, between my slowing breaths, I could hear a small voice in my head, a voice that sounded a lot like mine, whisper, “Great job.”

***

This piece first appeared in Sunday Morning Hot Tea. Subscribe so you don’t miss another piece.