I have never liked the phrase "going for a run," because it seems to imply that there is some sort of Platonic ideal, a run that is out there waiting. Likewise, I've always thought of "going running" as an intimidating activity requiring advance preparation -- the procuring and donning of runners' shoes and runners' duds, maybe even a special watch or water bottle, and probably some sort of public announcement: "Going for a run!", as the runner, hair up and already jogging, heads out the door.
Last summer, I was at Middlebury for seven weeks. Middlebury, VT, for those of you who don't know, can completely elude the eye if you're not watching for it. The landscape goes something like: pasture, pasture, barn, cow, woods, pasture, Middlebury, woods, pasture. What that means is that walking off campus in any direction lands you on a trail within 5 minutes, and these trails are beautiful, through fields and by falls. I was lonely; I hadn't access to my mother or my mother tongue, so I started taking long walks -- 1 hour, 2 hours, sometimes 3 -- every day after classes. And what started happening was that, on certain of these ambles, I'd feel a sudden urge to go faster. At these times, I would, casually and without advance preparation, begin to run. When I no longer felt like going fast, I would slow down. And I had an obvious but late realization (what I call an elevator moment, when you finally think about the phrase enough to get that an elevator is called an elevator because it elevates you): You can run whenever you want. You can stop running whenever you want.
For the past three mornings, I have run, and walked, on the Breezemere Rd. and on a beautiful trail down to the coast. And I plan to keep running every day. I never thought I'd be "a runner," and I still don't think I am. But I have a little bit of the high that also gets peculiarly ascribed to that group -- and I'm feeling new appreciation for a way of being that, as it turns out, is less about the Platonic ideal than the need to go just a little bit faster.
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