People ask me why I run.
I ran my first marathon a month ago. When people found this out there were two overwhelmingly popular responses. The first was, “Wow, I have always wanted to do that,” and the second was, “Why?” The latter question was asked with a mixture of pure inquiry and complete lack of understanding. The “why” people had no idea what could possibly be appealing about putting one’s body through 26.2 miles of pain. Well “why” people, today is your lucky day—I run for three reasons.
I run to kill.
Everyone has the voice. You can try to outcool yourself and pretend that you don’t have a voice in your head, but you do. (The best part is that right now you cool people are saying to yourself, ‘I don’t talk to myself, this guy is crazy.’ Sure you don’t). It’s the voice that constantly, incessantly, and tirelessly reminds you play it safe, keep it mellow, and take no risks. I hate that little bastard. He seems to pop up at the precise moment you happen to have a brilliant idea, decide to do something awesome, or are otherwise testing your comfort zone. I just spent 26.2 miles slowly strangling the life from his body, and it felt amazing. It’s not easy. He is persistent, always letting you know that you can stop at any point and all the pain and suffering will be over. His constant reminders, voiced in the cool tones of self-preservation, sound amazingly enticing, especially under a circumstance where each step is a jarring reminder that you are, in fact, in pain. He knows how to speak to you, because he is you. The unsolicited Jiminy Cricket of your subconscious knows exactly in which situations to voice his opinion, deftly reminding you that all it takes to stop the pain and exhaustion is to bow out. This works both ways, however. Each knee-buckling step is a chance to tighten the vice grip of your will power around the throat of his cautionary reminders. Every mile marker is another page written in your internal anarchist manifesto telling Jiminy to eat shit and die. I run to murder this voice, and every last lingering echo attempting to convince me to abandon my objective.
I run to unleash the beast.
There is a point in every run, or any form of exercise for that matter, where you are certain that you absolutely cannot continue any longer. You’re short of breath, muscles are starting to spasm from lack of fuel and lactic acid buildup, and your mental state feels as ragged as you do physically. This is the point where most people stop. Their body is sore, their mind is tired, and they are satisfied with a successful workout. What these people fail to realize is that there is another point, a step or two beyond what they think is the brink of death, when you become unstoppable. You break through a barrier, and your body goes from what feels like a crumpled heap to an invincible machine capable of doing anything on earth, except for stopping. You reach a place where being hit head on by a freight train won’t stop you—nothing can. At this point you can’t even stop you. This is beast mode. You know when it hits, a sudden calm comes over you, a myopic clarity that allows for no other option than actualization of your goal. Your body transforms from a gasping, desperate pile of meat into a machine, ruthlessly executing the logic of the mission at hand—run until you cross the finish line. At this point, external circumstances cease to exist, and there is only room for the maintenance of breathing and pace as you charge on.
I run to feel alive.
When you test your body, your body responds. Every time you break it down, it builds itself stronger. You will never feel more alive than the moment you take yourself beyond the brink of death and survive. There is no better way to free yourself from the shackles of mortality than to put your fist to the jaw of your own pain and agony in the firm assertion that you are unstoppable. Each challenge is a chance to prove to yourself that you are indeed alive. And each time you succeed presents the opportunity to push yourself further the next time. Build barriers and break them, then build new ones, and break those too. The satisfaction of completing something that truly challenges you is a euphoric testament to your own existence unparalleled by anything else I have ever known.
Stop finding excuses not to do the things that you have always wanted to do. Do them. Kill the voice that tells you that you’re incapable–you are.
Pain is temporary. Glory is forever.
3:47:49. Beast mode.
therealkfish 