I don’t really talk about running all that much. I like to do it. I do it most days of the week. I’ve done it for most of my life. But I don’t really talk about it. And the reason is because most people, especially those who don’t run and even some who do, find running really boring. I get that—I do. But today, as the outdoors looks more and more like optimal running weather, I’m going to be selfish and talk about why I run. So if running really isn’t your bag, feel free so swing by again next week—I’m sure I’ll have something stupid to complain about.
- I’ll start with the obvious: running makes me feel good. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah… Weight. Lung capacity. Pizza.
- Running keeps my brain sane. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..blah, blah, blah. Blah.
- Also, running makes me feel close to my dad. Like a lot of baby boomers, my dad took up running in the 1970s. When he was just starting out as a runner, he’d let me tag along and I’d ride my bike alongside him as he ran. By the time I was Virginia’s age, I was running short distances with him—maybe two to three miles at most. Once I entered seventh grade, we started training for 5 and 10K races together. All through jr. high, high school, and college years, and throughout my twenties, we ran all over Palo Alto—through neighborhoods, around Stanford campus, and up and down the grassy hills near the “dish,” where on a clear day, you can look south and make out the skyline of San Jose and up north, San Francisco. On family vacations, we’d go on running tours through Boston, New Orleans, Chicago.
And running was a time when we could just talk about anything. Usually it wasn’t particularly deep. One ongoing conversation was considering how much someone would have to pay you to lick a square inch of the sidewalk in San Francisco’s Chinatown. (My number is surprisingly low.) Or coming up with answers to the question, what’s the grossest food or drink one could consumer after a long, summer run? (New England clam chowder.)
But running was always a time he’d check in with me and see what was on my mind, whether it was friendship dramas, applying to college, or soccer tryouts. I spent a lot of time trying to persuade him that modern music wasn’t all crap and sometimes succeeded. And that’s what I often think about now when I run. This Sunday, it’ll be fourteen years since I lost my dad. I don’t believe in angels or ghosts, and I don’t believe he’s looking down from heaven. But I do enjoy thinking about the conversations we would be having when I run now. And in my own way, I’m still running with my dad.