Whenever I am waiting at the airport I feel quite inspired to write something about me or whatever is currently around me. Or I just have nothing better to do to kill some time. The period I was travelling consistently, I was used to write a piece each time, in each different airport. I wrote about everything, my feelings, the person in front of me or the the new pair of sunglasses I got. I still have those pieces and if I ever organise them well, I could probably write a book out of them.
What comes to my mind today regards running. Hence this post. A question I have been asking to myself for a long time now is “why do I run?”. Every time I posed such a question I found something better to do, postponing it to a better time. Maybe there is no better time than this, now that my flight has been delayed - and hopefully will not be cancelled because than I should be thinking of something more than just that question.
I am a runner since I was a child. When my friends played football, I ran. When we went out with the family on a sunday evening, I ran. When my mum asked me to buy the ham she forgot, I ran to the shop. I was just a factory of salty sweat that could burn shoes in weeks and t-shirts in days.
I have never been attracted by football despite the numerous attempts of my father who brought me every sunday to watch the football match of some team I forgot the name of or, to be more specific, I never fixed in my mind. I remember my friends collecting their heroes aggregated in groups they called teams.
For some reason that didn’t seduce me, at all.
In contrast I was attracted by the “red carpet” as I was used to refer to the track&field in my hometown. One day I entered the stadium just to run in the first lane, with the shoes that my mum bought for special occasions like dinners with the family or going to church.
As a child I couldn’t experience the philosophical beauty of running.
I just ran. And I am sure it was not for fun. It was to compete. The idea was - and I must admit sometimes still is - to defeat a competitor I didn’t know of and I would have never met again. No purpose at all, one should say. But for me it was very simple: they asked me to run as fast as I could on a distance they specified the day of the race. And I did, with no discussion. Defeating opponents was the main purpose. Running faster and winning was more a a statement of possession, a way of confirming the physical strength and endurance.
As I was becoming more mature, I could understand what I was doing. I even started giving my personal interpretation to running and the feelings that running transmitted to me started to change too.
I saw it was different from the other games and sports that my friends were used to practice. I’ve never been attracted by football for the simple reason that it’s a team game. Scoring or loosing is a product of a number of people who, somehow, contribute to their achievement. Tennis and other sports with a direct opponent have always been out of my league, due to the desire of doing sport regardless the presence of other people.
My mother usually reminds me of how much I liked to spend time on my own. I not only remember that period, but I am not surprised of the fact that today I can spend hours running in a forest, with trees and wind and rain and nothing else.
The feeling of competition slightly disappeared as I grew up.
I could grasp the joy of running alone relatively recently.
Running makes me think. It switches off some parts of the brain that otherwise would stay on and heat too much. I don’t know if that’s a matter of neurotransmitters or hormones or what. I am not even searching for an explanation.
Or maybe there is one. Running, as I see it, is the lack of dependence, the emblem of individuality and the proof that a man needs no hero.
When I go out for a run, there are no complications.
When I run, it’s simple.
