Why do I run? I can’t say I enjoy it very much. I’m certainly not very good at it. And yet I find myself gasping up and down the pavements of Sydney day and night, having signed up for the City 2 Surf run in a few weeks’ time.
The City 2 Surf is 14k, possibly the kind of thing Adharanand Finn does for a warmup, but with a famous slope midway through known as Heartbreak Hill (sorry, Rexona Heartbreak Hill – no facet of sporting endeavour in Australia must be without a commercial tie-in). So I’ve been running a lot of hills. Which appears quite difficult to avoid in Sydney anyway.
I’ve got into the habit of running home from work a couple of nights a week, which is about 6 or 7k, but this Sunday I decided to push myself a bit with a 9k (or thereabouts) meander along the coast to Maroubra beach.
It was a fantastic morning. As I left my flat, a small flock of cockatoos screeched through a perfect blue sky. And how did I spend such a golden morning? In a sweaty fury, wondering at what point my calves were going to explode (it’s not easy being a hypochondriac jogger – but that’s another post). Surely I should have been strolling around with my family eating ice cream.
I am not sure why I run, but I would have to say I am starting to find it a compelling hobby. What is it? The air, the thinking time? I do wonder if, as I have got older, I have started to feel that my substandard running efforts reinforce some essential lesson about life. All that graft, all that pain (real and imagined), ending in a vague, pyrrhic, short-lived sense of achievement.
Why do I run? Why do you? Suggestions below please.
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