Why we run
‘Things are not as they appear, nor are they otherwise.” —The Lankavatara Sutra, a Mahayana Buddhist text
“This is about running. This is not about running.” —Chris Bennett, global head coach of Nike Running
Standing at the starting line of a half marathon in Eugene, Ore. — a.k.a. TrackTown, USA, because of the city’s history with running, especially at the University of Oregon’s Hayward Field — I have two intentions: 1) to “run my run,” meaning to make my way through the course with as much fluency as possible given my particular body, psyche, ability, history, and so on; and 2) to simply finish the race. I have a specific concern about my left leg IT band.
There are nearly 10,000 of us running this race, each with our own hopes and fears to navigate. Shortly after they count us down, my perma-nag running watch informs me that my “performance condition” is at the lowest level I have ever seen: negative three. According to the watch’s manufacturer, the score is a realtime assessment of my ability to perform compared with my average fitness level based on pace, heart rate, and heart rate variability. My heart rate increases with a jolt of panic. Less than one mile into this journey, both of my intentions appear to be in jeopardy.
Why do I run? This question — going through my mind early on this run — is also the prompt for a practice in Zen teacher Vanessa Zuisei Goddard’s “Still Running: The Art of Meditation in Motion,” a guide to enlightenment through movement meditation. “If you can penetrate and understand running,” she writes, “there’s no reason you cannot do the same when a different dharma presents itself to you.”
There are many reasons I run, but I suspect that I have not penetrated the depth of their meaning. I started running long distances at the beginning of the pandemic — and after a few years as an average runner, I still have the zeal of a new convert — for the reasons you might expect: to be physically healthier and, I hope, to live longer, to challenge myself and gain confidence. I continued running for the joy of falling in love with a new activity in midlife: learning about the range of running experiences through short runs and long runs, slow runs and fast runs. Twenty minutes of sprinting on concrete in the rain, a contemplative 10mile shuffle on twisty trails in the woods. As my virtual running coach Chris Bennett says on the Nike Run Club App, “every run has a purpose.”
Eventually the purpose of my running became less about physical health and more about spiritual practice. Not only did running seem to help me cultivate qualities I aspire to embody, like discipline, dedication, and patience, but it also led to experiences that I would classify as religious in nature. Exhaustion could shut down the mind and open up the possibility of release.
After about 10 miles at a steady clip, I almost always cry. Why? I can’t really say, but it feels positive and closely related to the “runner’s high,” a short-lasting experience of euphoria many feel following intense exercise.
This parallels experiences that I’ve had on the meditation cushion, and the similarities don’t stop there. Like a meditation session, each run is complete and contains the world, but it is also part of a larger body of work. There is a deceptive simplicity to both running and sitting. From one perspective, they are both straightforward bodily actions. Viewed from another angle, they can both be seen as metaphors symbolizing your ability to do hard things and push past imaginary self-imposed boundaries. Both practices are most powerful, however, when the distinction between literal and metaphorical truth collapses because your bodily actions are an expression of your deepest aspirations. Not only can you do beautiful things, you are doing them. When this happens, you are going beyond the conventional metaphor to the kind of truth that can only be expressed through metaphor, like a finger pointing at the moon. Or as Bruce Springsteen says in “Born to Run,” getting to “that place where we really wanna go.”
Of course, experiencing this depth of meaning isn’t guaranteed by simply lacing up and heading out the door. You need to work hard and get lucky. Running’s return is based on the work you put into it. You show up with your body and mind, put in the time and effort, and improve by various measures. Staying motivated during this self-powered process is difficult. Along the way, however, things happen that are out of your control and prevent your improvement. Your IT band starts to flare up. Letting go and adjusting to the external factors of the world is difficult.
And then there are rare magical moments when the stars align, you have put in the work, and you get lucky with no injuries. Your watch agrees that you are in peak performance condition. Or it continues to nag, but you know that today you can run your run. Entering Hayward Field at the end of the half marathon in Eugene, I remember the first time I ran on this track, almost exactly 20 years ago.
During my leg of the 4x400 race at the Oregon High School State Championships, one voice cuts through the rest on the third turn. Amid thousands of spectators, my dad is leaning over the rail yelling: “Make your move now, Sam! Make your move now!”
I’m exhausted. Time has collapsed. At 18, my move was to sprint all-out. At 38, my move is to endure. My legs are going in circles — right toes to the track, lift off, briefly flying, left toes touching down — around and around. Coming to the end of my run, it doesn’t feel like a finish line. It feels like I’m making my move now, again.