I started running in 2012, the result of a drunken bet
with myself after finishing tennis lessons for the past four years. At this
point I resembled a befuddled grizzly bear lolloping the running track in
circles, and even a song list full of country rock, rnb, and hip hop the gym
always played for embarrassed encouragement couldn’t rouse me past the mile
mark. But Alhamdulillah, last May 31st was my fourth marathon.
Not that I needed marathons, I needed runs. I need them to tell me what to do. They told me what to eat, how much to drink, how often to exercise and when to rest myself – they disciplined me. Perhaps a quarter century girl I should not need such framework to guide me through life. But I did. I had a bit of a thing for excess. I was the kind still sitting straight and sharp at every dining table wishing everyone would leave their plate half-eaten and passed it all to me for the finishing end, I was the one who ordered the impossible man-vs-food meals, threw it down the throat and then picks up a dozen of kaya balls on the way home, I was the one who filled up the takeaway box excessively that the canteen lady had to close them up with extra rubber band (and of course charged me extra too). I was a consumption leviathan. With consumption comes guilt, inertia based depression and myriad physical health issues.
I have tried addressing my need to emotionally eat and drink my way through life’s multiple mishaps through other means; meditation, antidepressants, and old fashioned restraint. Meditation and old fashion restraint were no help. So as antidepressant, as I was mostly not depressed and when I was, it was probably because I felt lethargic, obese and horrible, something that could only be partially masked by a rearranging of the chemicals in my head.And so I walked, slowly turned into jogging pace, and before I realized it myself I was running side by side with my guy tennis teammate and he even cheered for me. The process of planning how I was going to tackle a new timing record transform my outlook. I will by hook or by crook finish my run every day. If work started in the morning, I will run in the evening, and if work started in the afternoon, I will run in the morning. The motivation was undeniably stout. From 20 minutes to one and a half hours, from two kilometers to 10 kilometers.
Last year alas, I unintentionally began to run extreme distances when a certain incident hit. The many hours on the road was my way of dealing with the grief that was enveloping me. Those distances; 15, 18, 20 kilometers; felt nothing on my feet, rather it opened up a space, a different air to breathe, an immerse of a fresh start. The downside is that after the post-run drinks the zenith of the finish line fades into the nadir of lying in the bath the next morning with a chest full of nothing. And then I needed another run. Only when I read Marshall Ulrich’s Running On Empty then it dawned on me that have used my new favourite sport as a total escape that perhaps I had better been spending my time with friends rather than alone in solitude. A long run can take you out of your regular head space, but it delivers you right back in the centre of your life, whatever else you choose to believe.
Not that I needed marathons, I needed runs. I need them to tell me what to do. They told me what to eat, how much to drink, how often to exercise and when to rest myself – they disciplined me. Perhaps a quarter century girl I should not need such framework to guide me through life. But I did. I had a bit of a thing for excess. I was the kind still sitting straight and sharp at every dining table wishing everyone would leave their plate half-eaten and passed it all to me for the finishing end, I was the one who ordered the impossible man-vs-food meals, threw it down the throat and then picks up a dozen of kaya balls on the way home, I was the one who filled up the takeaway box excessively that the canteen lady had to close them up with extra rubber band (and of course charged me extra too). I was a consumption leviathan. With consumption comes guilt, inertia based depression and myriad physical health issues.
I have tried addressing my need to emotionally eat and drink my way through life’s multiple mishaps through other means; meditation, antidepressants, and old fashioned restraint. Meditation and old fashion restraint were no help. So as antidepressant, as I was mostly not depressed and when I was, it was probably because I felt lethargic, obese and horrible, something that could only be partially masked by a rearranging of the chemicals in my head.And so I walked, slowly turned into jogging pace, and before I realized it myself I was running side by side with my guy tennis teammate and he even cheered for me. The process of planning how I was going to tackle a new timing record transform my outlook. I will by hook or by crook finish my run every day. If work started in the morning, I will run in the evening, and if work started in the afternoon, I will run in the morning. The motivation was undeniably stout. From 20 minutes to one and a half hours, from two kilometers to 10 kilometers.
Last year alas, I unintentionally began to run extreme distances when a certain incident hit. The many hours on the road was my way of dealing with the grief that was enveloping me. Those distances; 15, 18, 20 kilometers; felt nothing on my feet, rather it opened up a space, a different air to breathe, an immerse of a fresh start. The downside is that after the post-run drinks the zenith of the finish line fades into the nadir of lying in the bath the next morning with a chest full of nothing. And then I needed another run. Only when I read Marshall Ulrich’s Running On Empty then it dawned on me that have used my new favourite sport as a total escape that perhaps I had better been spending my time with friends rather than alone in solitude. A long run can take you out of your regular head space, but it delivers you right back in the centre of your life, whatever else you choose to believe.
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