I have not always loved running and I have not always run, but I do both now.  It seems that I have done them for so long now, they are a way of life, if not a defining characteristic of who I am.  But like a New Balance ad, it’s always been a LOVE/hate sort of relationship.  One of expectations, some met, some not.  One of pain, some rewarded with glory, some not.  And one of elation, or sometimes just misery and paying the pauper.

If you run for long enough, people seem to gain a sort of respect for you as a runner, even if you suck.  So when I drug myself through a marathon some years ago, hobbling across the finish line like Quasimodo, I had some internal inkling that maybe I was going about this whole running thing wrong.  Maybe it didn’t have to have as much pain/hate/agony/endlesspacketsofcarbohydrategels. 

My reasons for running are many, not the least of which is a genetic propensity towards considering most levels of masochism just “good, hard work.”  And it is true that my epic journey towards a new relationship with running came not from some zen pursuit of joy, but the selfish demand for better performance.  Which meant faster finish times, because I’m not even the kind of runner that can compete with other runners.  This should have been a sign that I take stuff too seriously.

It began with a video of myself running and the painful truth that wounded antelope and parapalegic gingerbread men run with more grace and poise than I do.  I worked on correcting some obvious flailing about with the help of my friend Jag in Ireland.   I landed a little better, I ran a little harder, I got a little faster.  Then I moved to India and tested my love of running.

In India, most of my running was on a treadmill.  For eight months I clopped along on that damn thing, watching blinking lights and numbers while my muscles atrophied and became capable of a single boring motion.  I also greatly expanded my knowledge of Bollywood songs and dance moves, so it wasn’t all bad.

Until I got to trails again.  Trails at last!!!  Oh the freedom of the forest!  Passing spring flowers and trees and rocks and fresh air!!! But what’s this? My pace seems slow.  My legs got tired fast.  My style, already questionable, got so sloppy the mountainbikers that passed me suspected I was having an epileptic fit.  By the time I finished my joyous mountain run, I was self-loathing and miserable.  Why am I a fucking runner anyway? I suck at it.  It hurts.  Even trails weren’t fun anymore.

Then my rookie running buddy Theresa and renowned rolfer, Owen Marcus held a running clinic called Running Flow.  I went with a certain amount of arrogance that can only be attributed to blatant stupidity and youth (the latter I don’t even HAVE, so I’m apparently heavy on the former).  I’m a runner, I clock decent times for a mom hobby jogger, I don’t get injured.  What’s some juju muscle doctor gonna teach me? 

In fact, he didn’t teach me anything my body didn’t already know.  It came as no surprise that we humans evolved as runners and our bodies inherently know how to do it.  We all just complicate it with our hi-tech gear, expensive running shoes, watches, strides, overthinking and under-feeling.  I left the clinic that day with a few things that ought to make my running more natural, easy, enjoyable: Lean forward from the ankles, relax and flop the feet, round your shoulders so you can breath.

I ran and tried to put these things into practice.  Sometimes, for brief moments, I’d think “oh this is it, this is how it should feel” but it felt like work and concentration, not like some epiphany of running knowledge.  What I wanted, what I was grasping for, was the “click.”

It happened when I least expected it.  It was pissing rain and blowing gale force on a day they called summer but I was sure had snuck in from some winter storm in a parallel universe.  I didn’t really want to go running.  In fact I had raced three weeks in a row and I was downright burnt out.  There I was sucking down my coffee at Theresa’s house when she suggested I borrow her Vibram fivefingers.  (For those of you not swept up in the nation’s craze to own these things, they are a “barefoot” shoe, essentially a five-fingered sock with a thin rubber layer at the bottom to keep thorns out.)  Yeah, whatever, I’ll wear your shoes.

They say you need to break your feet in to wear these barefoot things.  They have no support.  They say you shouldn’t run on rocks or gravel at first as tender feet aren’t ready.  Run an easy mile, go back to shoes, try again the next day. 

Yeah. Right.  What the instructions and guides don’t say is this:

Running essentially barefoot thrusts you instantly into an animalistic awareness of your body and surroundings, turns you into a child/predator/animal/prey/human/runner in the blink of a eye, the step of a foot.  Pitter patter, went my feet, and I couldn’t stop.

I tore up a rocky mountainside, scaled up boulders, pounced over sharp rocks, splashed through creeks, leapt over logs, ripped around corners, and rushed my way to the summit.  Then I turned around and ran so fast back down that hill, I nearly took out some hikers along the way.  The only thing I was missing was a cape.  And the only sore muscles I had were in my cheeks from the idiot-like grin I couldn’t wipe off my face for seven miles of mud, rocks, sticks, and sweat.

And without thinking about form, my body did just what it evolved doing: running efficiently.  I leaned from the ankles, my feet flopped as I landed on the pads, and my whole body moved and flexed as I bounded over the earth.

Unexpectedly, my planned slog of a few miles turned into a conciliatory miracle, a zen run, enlightenment.  My relationship with running became one of just LOVE.  My running was suddenly about being present in my body and the world around me at the same time (dare I say Mindfulness? Oh how I resist!!).  It wasn’t about burning calories, clocking miles, shaving off seconds.

It’s about having fun.

Sorry Adidas, Nike, Mizuno, etc.  I was born with more technology than you’ll ever deveop.  And I’m gonna use it.