Coming Back to Yourself

It was the 2007 ING Miami Half-Marathon and the start of something new, or so I hoped. “I’ve run enough miles in my day to know that the answers just aren’t out here,” I said to the girl running next to me as we turned side-by-side onto decked out Ocean Drive. “Running, for me, has lost its meaning.”

Just two years earlier my name could have been featured in the “who’s-who” of South Florida running. The local 5K’s were my legitimate stomping grounds and I had the race times to back it up, too. I took pride in my craft, the same way a working professional might soak in the well-deserved respect of his/her colleagues. Running was the vehicle through which I proved to myself and others that I was worth more than the average Joe. If I won enough races, I thought, and became truly invincible, then the pursuit of excellence would have been well worth all the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get me there. Then it started happening. All of a sudden, I was the guy with the bull’s-eye on his back, the one everybody looks at as though he had a touch of the supernatural.

Amidst this unprecedented rise in the ranks, I got blindsided with a competing interest that made me re-assess my true priorities. It questioned my loyalties, confronted me with all the big questions, and forced me to grow up in more ways than one. The emptiness I had felt throughout my previous campaigning for greatness was now being replaced by a fulfilled sense of purpose. All indications were that I was headed in the right direction, leaving behind a selfish quest in favor of a higher cause. The person I had been before, or at least the habits and routines which I had grown accustomed to, were being relegated to an article of distant memory. I was convinced, and still am, that this was a major step in my maturation as a more complete and balanced individual, but I still had one more lesson to learn.

So here I was, after a leave of absence and in depreciated form, taking a crash course on humility and the plight of the average runner. I couldn’t be sure if that nauseous feeling pervading my system was reactive disgust at my sluggish pace or if indeed, I was on the border of metabolic breakdown. The first four miles alongside Miami’s beautiful cruise ships were supposed to be an appetizer, only this time the distance felt like a full course meal. My competitive personality, however, would not allow me to shift down gears even if my motors were letting out some serious exhaust fumes. Somewhere around mile 10, my partner turned to me and said, “Hey, don’t hold yourself back for me” but the truth was I had nothing left and the trudge was underway.

During my recent hiatus, I had, as St. Augustine once famously asserted, “become a vast problem unto myself.” The consequences of my desertion led to an estrangement from friends I once considered to be brothers-at-arms, and the ghosts of my past left impressions on me like Hell-bent phantom memories. These friends of mine, however, refused to give in to my apparent identity crisis. Their insistence kept me hanging on to the slightest glimmer of hope that the glory days of yesterday could be recaptured once more.

But being the philosopher that I am, coming up with rationalizations for a radical, if not round-a-about, change of lifestyle had not been difficult to come by. Designing shrewd arguments and making them stand up to a host of objections was part of my job and daily study. After all, I reasoned, aren’t we defined by who we are and not necessarily by what we do? Taking off the runner’s mantle did not seem like a betrayal of self, especially since my reasons were completely others-centered. I was trying to give more of myself to others who I had singled out for special importance in my life, including all the free time I used to devote to maniacal training regimens. That sounds like a humanitarian pledge, doesn’t it? The idea that the athlete’s road to glory was nothing but the disguised mark of vanity on the human heart seemed to align itself with a certain kind of gut instinct. If running is just about being the best, then how does that fit into the overall scheme of things and worst of all, what does that say about the state of my soul?

But although it made intuitive sense, there was still an element of unfinished business that wouldn’t loosen its grip on my tormented consciousness. If I had to describe it, I’d compare it to an itch one feels the urge to scratch, only it was an existential itch and not a physical one. I’m reminded of the old adage that says if you love something, let it go and if it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. If it doesn’t, then it was never meant to be.” It must be true that some dreams die hard, others not without a fight, and still a few not at all.

One hour and 37 minutes after the gun went off that morning, I turned to the same girl who had been my shadow the entire race and said, “I was wrong earlier, the answer was next to me the whole time.” Sometimes all it takes is a group of loyal friends that keep believing even when you’ve lost all faith. The truth is that a faster version of myself might not be a “better” me but it’s a happier me, even if that means being the big fish in a small pond. We all have to take our victories wherever they can be won, and to our surprise, those around us will thank us for it.

So for all of you runners in hiding or potential retirees, think twice before you commit bipedal suicide. Since we know we can’t hide, we might as well start running…fast.