The Joy of the Short Distance Runner

I discovered running later in life. A few years ago, I worked with two young, smart, tall, fit women. I found them very impressive and inspiring, especially when I learned they spent their weekends running races and raising money for charity.

I had recently come back from spending six weeks working in New Orleans and had discovered every possible type of oyster dish and po boys. My gait was slowed by my increased weight. I began working out with a trainer and in time, my body became more toned. I gathered my courage and expressed interest to my colleagues about running a half marathon. It was daunting since my physicality had consisted of semi-regular tennis games and occasional yoga sessions.

I showed up religiously to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society Team in Training sessions on the weekends. As one mile gave way to the next mile, the sing-song rhythm of my sneakers on the concrete brought me ineffable joy. I know many call it a runner’s high. It was partly that…and I found a sport that encapsulated my competitive spirit, my innate athleticism, and my ability to help others (when possible). And, it was a quantifiable activity for me. I completed one-half marathon, then another one, and I was hooked. A year later, I had two sprint triathlons under my belt. I learned on a cellular level the lessons of self-discipline and grit and the rewards of charity and confidence.

I am a planner and a counter and running for me was a match made in asphalt heaven. The way others may count their likes, tweets, and shares, I could plan my route, count my steps, plan my week, and count my calories — all while getting fit. This is what got me through the 3, 5 or 10 miles.

It is the activity that has kept me sane and grounded during this pandemic. I live in West Los Angeles and I usually make my way to the beginning of the Wilshire Corridor in the early evening. I love the majestic sweep of the tall high rises as I run past the doorman buildings and the wizened, vibrant trees in this older part of Los Angeles. The sun is usually setting and as I increase my downhill pace, I am at peace. The golden light cast against the stateliness of the buildings reminds me of many New York City walks and, in my happy place, I count my blessings.

So many planning tropes: We plan, God laughs. “Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans. Someone’s sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago.”

My mother was born a week before WWII started in a ghetto in Poland. She certainly did not plan that auspicious beginning. It is a miracle she survived her infancy in a ghetto and then, being a toddler in a labor camp. She moved to Israel as a high school graduate and then to the United States as a bride.

My brother was born a year later and I came along a year after that. Raising us was a lot for my mother, and her hyper-vigilance took over. We grew up in a tough neighborhood and we were always closely watched, part Jewish mothering and part anxiety or one could say, one and the same.

So, when I was a teenager and our neighbor and friend Sammy suggested we go for a run at the high school track across the street, I jumped at the opportunity. The next morning at 6 am, I quietly and stealthily unlocked the three locks and met Sammy at the elevator of our six-story building in the projects. We walked quickly to the high school and unlatched the gate to the track. I still remember the clear, crisp air as I ran around the grassy track, my heels digging into the dirt as I tried to get to a 6-minute mile. I rounded that track twice that morning and returned home, walking on air and thrilled about my accomplishment. I slipped back inside my apartment, my heart pounding afraid I would be caught. To my immense relief, no one was awake, and I hurried back to my bed and under the covers. I wore a bright smile inside for the remainder of the day. The experience was mine alone. Sammy and I kept up our subterfuge for a few more runs. And then, the sneaking out became onerous, so we stopped. Life happened and I forgot about the love of running until decades later.

We are all doing our best. We’ve lost count of the days of the week. We are suffering from fatigue of all kinds: Zoom, new recipes, dishwashing, same rooms, puzzle-solving, bread making, and family. Life is suddenly and unbearably monotonous.

My mother has lived in New York for the past half-century with the energy, youthful curiosity, and joie de vivre that always ensured her life was filled with friends and plans. She keeps busy with walks in her neighborhood, careful to avoid anyone lest she becomes infected. The other moments in her day are taken up with copious amounts of streaming, online bridge, and hours of phone calls (not Zoom). Having grown up in the heart of trauma, she has not lost her sense of humor and wit. However, her lifelong legacy of having pain and loss as a constant shadow has made her hyper-vigilance on higher alert than usual. She, too, plans and counts. She keeps tabs on the news meticulously and she counts the lives lost in the pandemic.

Now, we are all counting and in a constant state of mourning, loss, and anxiety. We know it will pass and yet, we are not in flow. The minutes are meaningless. Plans can change in a moment. Furloughs, news, and invisible microbes fill the days. We look at life through the lens of missed opportunities, non-existent personal and work boundaries, and unrelenting, morally ambiguous disinformation. I wish I understood more about the time-space continuum, string theory, and vaccines than ever before.

It is challenging to remember the things that make us happy during dinnertime with the 2 toddlers that feel like 10 children and your spouse who has become deaf at 40 when you call out for help. It can feel selfish to perform an act of self-care in our 2nd month of confinement when we are at our wits’ end. In fact, this is when we need it the most.

I highly suggest that you find your mojo that is missing, search high and low, and do not lose your joy. It could be right under your feet. It might save your sanity and be your own act of charity.

How do I love thee, let me count the ways.

P.S. I finally told my mother about the clandestine teenage runs about 5 years ago. She was quite surprised.