It occurred to you around mile ten with two left to finish that running is entirely painful, and you love every second of it. One reason why: you go to work. Fifty hours a week you face a computer screen, sitting and standing according to someone else’s schedule, and you reward yourself not with comfort or luxury but with punishing workouts and crippling pain. It’s a selfish act—just you and a trail and maybe your headphones—and you chase the elusive high and catch it and then come down, sweat, heart pounding, legs shaking, all alone. It’s self-love: masochist, worshipful. That’s where the pain comes into play. Because if you don’t feel it then you haven’t pushed yourself hard enough, and it got too easy. So you push a little harder next time, and keep speeding up until it hurts again. And you never get anywhere! You do, of course, cover a lot of ground, but you’re not going anywhere. You run out and then come back, and then the next day you do it again, like you’re dreading it but also kind of begging for more, and you can look down on yourself, crack a bullwhip, command your legs to run faster, farther, until—runner’s high again, euphoria, angels singing, trumpets, rays of white light, a-ha. (Running is a lot like sex.)
today, it’s like sex. —nicole...— cary randolph
Yeah, some days it’s...this. On others, there’s just pain.