Why do I run?

Why do I run? I run to suffer.

For thousands of years humans evolved because running was a necessity. Running was the way of life whether to gather food, defend the village, or just to travel. But these days, none of these essential reasons to run are applicable. Our food is gathered into shopping carts, we have police to protect us from small disputes, and a military to protect from larger ones. But even the United States' enormous military force is only comprised of 1.9 million Americans (0.4 percent of the population). So, very little of our population needs to run.

Except that we do need to run. We need to suffer.

This idea sounds scary and sadistic at first, I know that. But bear with me. As we let more and more technology and creature comforts seep into our lives we see sharp increases in obesity and chronic stress. Our society has a 50 percent divorce rate, while heart disease and diabetes are crippling a huge portion of our population. Our bodies and minds are not evolved to handle comforts.

So how do we suffer in a world full of ergonomic chairs, super computer cell phones, and drive through donut shops and Keurig machines? Go running.

Running hurts. Your feet will hurt, your sides will cramp, your heart will feel like it is pounding out of your chest, your lungs will burn, and it will feel like battery acid is coursing through your veins. But none of those things compare to the atrophy of the human spirit we are experiencing in our modern world every day. Running is suffering, and we need it. We need the fire of pain to burn out the poison we ingest every day. We need to hear our inner voice scream out for relief so we can learn to muffle it, and keep going.

When I started running it was actually a by-product. I had picked up rock climbing in college, but I could never do the things my friends were doing. I found out the hard way that rock climbing is much more difficult when you wear an insulating weight vest of fat under your skin. Luckily for me, I moved into a bachelor pad and two of my rock climbing roomies were also marathon runners. One of which was 260 pounds of military grunt muscle who had run a marathon barefoot. I couldn't finish a 5K at the time. But these guys were like the long lost bards of mythology-past. They could weave a tale about yourself you had never heard before and after 20 minutes with these fellas you could run a Marathon. Or at least you felt like it. Especially after a couple beers were mixed with the tales of possibility.

A number weeks later I found myself on a street corner under the stars at 5:30 in the morning standing on a sidewalk covered in 2 inches of glass-like ice with snow falling all around me in sub-zero temperatures. I was panting, holding my side, and stopping my Runkeeper app which for the first time ever, read "3.1 miles completed." I just ran my first 5K, alone, hours before the sun would rise, snow falling all around me, and not a car or person in site. Even in my euphoric state of accomplishment, I was agonizing in pain and suffering. And it was amazing.

I started running on a very similar morning in the middle of winter on my first solo training run. It was for a quarter of a mile. Walk a quarter, run a quarter, walk a quarter. That's how the first week of training went. At 5 o'clock in the morning. The second week I added a quarter mile of running. And so on. Before I knew it, I was finished with my workout, cooked, ate, and cleaned up breakfast all more than an hour before I used to get up. Do you wake up groggy in the morning? I used to as well. Until I wore my running clothes to bed. I would wake up, slip my feet into my shoes and lace them up, throw my contacts in, chug a glass of water, and eat a banana on the walk out the door. When I hit the sidewalk in 10 degree weather 4 minutes after my alarm went off, the suffering was real and about to get worse. It took 3 weeks and then my eyes would shoot open a minute before my alarm went off. I would wake up feeling electrified and my heart would already be pounding. Even on Saturday, much to my own dismay. It was an incredible transformation of my biology that I didn't even know was possible. That spring I ran my first Half Marathon at the 2013 Flying Pig.

Now I'm looking forward to the Brokeman's Half Marathon to be my 27th, and the Air Force Half Marathon to be my 30th on a journey to finish 30 Halfs before I turn 30 years old.

I run because the suffering transformed me. It opened me to a world of new experiences. I've met a amazing new people, I have very expensive wind chimes hanging in our new baby's room, a new wardrobe of race T-Shirts, I have become an ambassador for the Brokeman's Half Marathon Company, and last year I qualified for and competed in the Obstacle Course Racing World Championship. But most importantly is what I haven't found. I haven't found out what I'm capable of. I haven't suffered enough. Nothing in my current journey has made me quit. I've never bowed out of a race despite sprained ankles, an auto-immune disorder where my body randomly decides to reject my skin, despite having a 4 month old adorable drool factory at home, nothing I have encountered has shown me my limits. 

One day soon I will finish my first full Marathon, and eyes keep gazing in the distant direction of an Iron Man. One day I want to coach and inspire people who think they just might be able to slowly jog around a track one time. Because that is where I have been and I have loved the journey.

Thanks to Suffering I have been re-made, and Suffering can re-make the world.