I'm Angry That Running Makes Me Happy

Musings on a complicated relationship written off the cuff after four, unearned days off.

It’s raining, I have a lingering headache, and I just spent thirty minutes prostrate in an attempt to mitigate some morning nausea. Today, my stream-of-conscious, self-analytical comic highlighted my current list of worries: work, maitaining my Substack, the well-being of our feral cats, the problems caused by feral cats to whom we do not wish to attend, whether the late night critters are scampering within or outside our roof, de-winterizing the camper, diet modifications, and… exercise.

My physical and mental health relies heavily on regular exercise, and my preferred method of exercise is running. With my tall, skinny frame, I am built for it. Over the decades, I have achieved some success in races without working terribly hard on preparation, unlike in highschool where days of study yielded poor results in comparison to some of my peers who had glanced over the material or written a last-minute essay. I also come from a distance running family. No one ran competitively in college or anything like that, but running is something we all did at some point in our lives. As an example: three out-of four of my siblings have qualified for and run the Boston Marathon.

Even with these advantages, I dread going out for a run, especially when it’s up to me alone to make it happen. If I excuse myself in the morning, it’s to prioritize writing and drawing (besides the fact that it’s usually cold and dark). I work best in the first half of the day. On those days, afternoons often become mysteriously busy, “preventing” me from taking advantage of a block of time that was free, at least at the beginning of the day. Or perhaps I eat a late lunch which I then have to digest… just in time for dinner. Evenings are for television and I don’t want to stay up late, since I am most productive in the morning. And another day goes by.

So why the struggle? Running is on the rise, thanks in part to the pandemic closing gyms and lowering daily step-counts. There are plenty of people who wish they could run, and others who’s bodies require a lot more dedication, strength, and intention to be airborne between footfalls. If running is my preferred form of exercise, it’d be a no-brainer to capitalize on my natural gifts and priviledges and get out there and do it, right? Sure, there are plenty of people going to bed in their running outfits because an article suggested it as a way to help you motivate, but that’s not me. I am a runner. I am not trying to be a runner. Or maybe I am?

If I struggle to keep a consistent training regiment, am I a runner? If I bring running gear on a four-day trip knowing I will find an excuse not to use it, am I a runner? If my struggle results in guilt about failure as opposed to pride about discipline, do I deserve the title? My history in the sport seems only to re-inforce these doubts that arise from my present difficulties. Running has always come easy to me, unlike some other things. Therein lies the problem: I have to want it, but I don’t want to.

Wanting it means getting out of bed and out the door. Wanting it means stretching and strength training because my body’s warning sirens are only getting louder. I have never enjoyed stretching nor strength training. I do not want to do exercises so that I am able to exercise. The exercise I want to do is running, and yet, I am finding a way to employ the necessary discliplines I refuse to excuse my forfeiture of my preferred form of exercise, which I rely on to maintain my physical and mental health. I am not proud of it. The whole thing pisses me off because it exposes an unfortunate side of me: not wanting to invest in the hard parts of the thing I want to do. I don’t want to admit my needs, because it makes things inconvenient.

I will go running at 4:00 PST today.