Hello, Defeat

Saturday, April 30, 2011

To me, running is not a sport, it’s a religious practice: a holy individualistic-spiritual practice. There’s nothing between the sky, me and the pavement. I take this solitary road to redemption (quite literally) at least once a week. I make it a point not to compete with anyone else but myself. I go as slowly as I need, stop as often as I want and take my time.

This is why, of course, I registered to run with a running group.

I showed up Saturday morning at the meeting location on the Upper East Side exactly when the group concluded a discussion and rushed through the door. I had less than a minute to toss my bag into the bag-check area. Rushing through the door, I chased the group, still trying to untangle my earphones with my hand and teeth, setting up the appropriate running playlist on my phone with the other, and I managed to do it all within four blocks while keeping pace, but not for long.

I found myself with a group of five or six men, all towering over me, on the east side of Central Park. I was running at a speed I usually reserve for self-punishment sessions, the “ I ate junk food for two days in a row” kind. It didn’t take long for the gap to grow. At first I was keeping up — I even managed to get in front of the men briefly, but the expert runners quickly passed me and left me behind.

I felt Betrayed. Angry. Disappointed. I knew I couldn’t keep up, not if I want to be able to use my lungs for the walk back. Looking at them disappearing beyond a curve up ahead, I started feeling the same way I have been often feeling since I moved to the Catalyst's apartment. Now, for the first time, the self-disgust was focused enough for me to finally name it: Defeat.

If I were a normal, healthy-minded person, I would probably feel lousy for a couple of minutes, perhaps sad as I’d walk out of the park, looking down at the pavement, snailing my way back to the meeting point. But I have a weird relationship with negative feelings.

The defeat fueled me in an unexpected way. I felt happy. I was smiling, a second after I realized I was utterly, spiritually and religiously defeated. I was out of my league. I slowed down and started walking, eventually finding myself in the conservatory garden, which led me back out to the street, about 50 blocks away from the starting point. I still do not know how I managed to run 50 blocks up hill at that speed, but I had no choice beside walking my way back to the starting point. Running was not an option anymore.

By the time I got back to the meeting point, it was probably an hour since the last runners picked their bags and left. “How was the run?”, asked one of the organizers, smiling in a “you-suck-snail’s-ass-and-we-know-it” kind of way.

“Great,” I replied sarcastically, but after a short moment I grinned happily: “You know what,” I said, “It wasn’t. It sucked. It was terrible.” I went into the changing room and picked up my bag. “See you next week!” I told him as I closed the door behind me and disappeared into the nearest subway entrance.

Like in any other religious practice I know, running requires its participators to be humbled, even humiliated before before they can be enlightened. That Saturday, I got my dose of enlightenment. In order to be able to get better, I have to fully acknowledge I suck first.