Alls I Want Is Freedom

My dog returning a stick at top speed, the only speed she goes.


Every couple of months I will decide that I am going to start running. In fact, today was one of those days. In fact, I am still trying not to puke as I write this.

I have always hated running. On paper, I understand why people run. I can even think of several reasons why a person ought to run:

1. Because someone just threw a stick.
2. Because everyone looks good in running clothes.
3. Because after the apocalypse, foot travel is going to make a major comeback.

Even so, I can’t seem to stick with it. Some one once said that it was our gym teachers that turned us against running. There is some wisdom in that. As the class clown, it was my duty to get into trouble a lot. As punishment, I would have to run laps. No one likes to do something if they are made to do it (or at least I don’t). More than ten years later, there is still some Pavlovian residue of shame and contempt that is triggered by the swishing sound of parachute pants.

Still, every couple of months my fears of growing old and fat and immobile will boil over and I will hear myself announce that, “I am going to go for a run,” and I will feel myself go lace up my 5-year-old sneakers. This is always a bit baffling to me because I’ll bet I think about going running once a week. What is it that sends me over the edge from thought into action? Especially since I know that I will return to not running in no more than two weeks.

Part of the problem is that my reentry into the world of running is always a big disappointment. During those months between runs I will concoct an image of myself as a tireless athlete, covering incredible distances with the lightness and grace of someone who has been running consistently for a long time. I will be able to run for an hour or more, and suffer from nothing more than a slight shortness of breath. Also, I will have really cool shoes and socks.

In reality, you will be able to find me no more than five minutes up the road, doubled over in pain, a mouth full of phlegm, checking my stop watch with tears in my eyes. My shoes and socks will be old and uncool.

Another problem I encounter is what to think about while running. For some reason, in moments of stress, my brain will default to some far-off radio station from my childhood that only plays a few seconds of songs I dislike and don't even really recognize. Running brings this on almost immediately, my plodding pace setting a strong backbeat for a repetitive chorus like:

I don't want your Free-dom
I don't want to play around
I don't want your moxy, baby
Alls I want is Free-dam

Huh? Is that for real? I can hear it so clearly, but I can't imagine I have those lyrics right, even after the 50th time through. I'm pretty sure it's by either George Michael, The Moody Blues, or a woman...

As a rational person, I know that some things need to be built upon. This first run is like practice. It will take time to improve. After a while, it will get easier and feel more natural. I may even learn to enjoy it. Only how? How can I make myself continue? Even as I sit here, I am not positive that I will ever run again. My urge to run feels impulsive, and linked more to mental health than physical. One run and I have shaken loose whatever was compelling me to do it in the first place. Maybe running is just punishment, and now I have taken it upon myself to do the sentencing. Maybe I have been feeling guilty, and this is my way of working off some of that guilt.

Anyway, I hope so. Otherwise I'm going to be really sore tomorrow for nothing.