Lessons From 30 Years of Running

Earlier this month, I was just jogging along, a few days before my birthday, reflecting on growing up and growing older. At some point, I was struck by how long I had been running, not on this particular day but in life. This forced me to start doing extremely complicated math, which usually involves knowing my current age (difficult) and the year I graduated high school (the only year I remember) to extrapolate back to the actual year and age I started running. Because math and running don’t mix well, I had to do it several times. Sure enough, sometime this past fall I had slipped quietly past my 30^th running anniversary.

By “started running,” I don’t mean the haphazard sprinting about I did as a child or even the reluctant, PE-enforced slogs but running as a structured sport. Like many things in my life, it wasn’t something I intended to do. I actually used to swim, but in fall of 1992, my school canceled its competitive swim program. Apparently, the cross-country team was also in danger due to lack of participation, if I remember correctly, and my friends convinced me to sign up.

It wasn’t the smoothest start. I huffed along the rolling hills near our school on those first few runs with the team, falling further and further behind. However, I’m glad I just sort of stuck with it because running has since become my preferred way to explore both myself and the world. I haven’t always run consistently. I’ve taken breaks for various reasons and I’ve done run streaks. I’ve stopped racing and restarted racing and stopped racing yet again. I’ve followed structured training plans and been more whimsical in my approach. However, running has always just been there—one of my favorite things to do, even when it’s hard or boring or I just don’t like it very much.

So, after all these years of running, here are just a few of the many things I’ve learned:

While the act and action are somewhat repetitive, running is always different. Even my usual routes change from day to day. I see different people and animals, or the same ones doing different things. My fluctuating mood means I also experience the same terrain differently. On a larger scale, when I get bored with it, I try something new—a new distance, a new route or trail, or even just new music, no music, or a podcast.

It’s important to be playful. I’ve gone through periods when I’ve taken running far too seriously, and I usually burn out and need to take a break. Hitting splits, certain distances, and paces can be important to improve and reach goals, but, after all, I’m not making a living off it. Even if I were, I would still purposively splash through puddles, sing to myself in the forest, strum out some air guitar, run through sprinklers, and all that other stuff that prompts weird stares. Life is hard enough as it is sometimes, I don’t need to make running an additional chore or obligation.

Running is a great way to explore. I can never really orient myself in a place until I run it. I tend to pick these early routes in a new city on a whim, turning based on the novelty of a street or the lure of green spaces. Then, I get to hunt my way back. It’s getting lost intentionally and no other option allows me to make such a solid mental map. This is also why I like to run when I travel, especially in the morning when there are few people. I might have a general idea where I want to go, but I still take unplanned detours, finding places I want to come back to or wouldn’t otherwise see later in the day.

There’s always someone faster or slower, either right now or eventually. I will pass and be passed on every run. It’s important to remind myself to stay in my own run and not worry about what others are doing. We’re all doing our own workout and we all have our own history. How fast or slow I run is not a reflection of my personal worth or my commitment to the sport, nor is it for anyone else. This also applies to each person’s size, gender identity, age, and the clothes they are running in. Running is for anyone who wants to do it.

Injuries are the opportunities you don’t want. It sucks to be injured so it’s okay if I’m disappointed, upset, angry, or all those emotions at any one time. In retrospect, injuries have generally helped me learn more about myself and my body and become a bit more well-rounded in life. It’s through injuries that I’ve learned to be more observant to how different parts of my body are feeling and what is an early-warning sign that should be managed quickly. I’ve also learned the strength training, stretches, and exercises that are essential to helping me avoid injury as much as possible. Lastly, enforced time-off from running has allowed me to find and explore other interests in life. In fact, the entire trajectory of my life changed when I broke my foot (not running) many years ago. After recovering, I couldn’t return to running as I had before, but I could walk. I re-discovered hiking, joined a hiking club, met my partner, started mountaineering, moved to Spain, oh goodness. Imagine if I hadn’t broken my foot?

Running is not who I am. For a long time, I was a runner. Running was my identity. But what happens when a runner suddenly cannot run, a key part of their identity, because they, let’s say, broke their foot doing something stupid. For me, it set me adrift, grasping at new identities—Am I a hiker now? What does this mean for being a runner? Before, all other athletic activities were designed to support running—Pilates for core strength, yoga for mobility, lifting for strong legs and balance. But suddenly, there was no overarching agenda, I did them because I enjoyed them. Even once I returned to running, I kept doing them and adding more. Am I a climber, a mountaineer, a caver, a skier? Yes and no. I’m all of those things and none of them. They are all just things that I do as an expression of who I am. I imagine this list will eventually erode, either by choice or necessity, but what drove me to these activities will always remain