Janet & I took part in another LA institution Friday night by attending a
Dodgers game. I spoke to my parents on the way there, and they both laughed incredulously when I mentioned where we were headed. Having raised me, they’re all too familiar with my historical disinterest in spectator sports, and pretty much all sports in general. In my youth soccer team, when the other parents were screaming at their kids to pass or score, my parents were yelling for me to stop picking weeds and pay attention to the game. And when all the kids except me were awarded trophies at the end-of-season tee-ball pizza party, I was later discovered crying in the backseat floorboard of the family car.
My father likes to blame it all on one incident when I was five or six and my mother decided to play catch with me in his absence. He says I gained a “fear of the ball” after she gave me a black eye that afternoon, which ruined me for sports. Perhaps. Or perhaps I just lacked a competitive nature. Or perhaps I just wasn’t very athletic, and it felt bad to lose all the time. Whatever the case, in high school I joined the band to avoid gym class, and every Thanksgiving when the family would gather to watch the UT vs. A&M game, I went off somewhere to listen to my Walkman. We’ve all grown up with the John Hughes movies. There are jocks and there are geeks. I knew my place.
I pretty much avoided any sort of physical activity for most of my young life, unconsciously following the principle, “If you don’t try, no one can say you failed.” And I wasn’t alone. It’s funny how the group mentality can be so pervasive, even when you’re trying to be different. In the community of musicians and artists I hung out with in my twenties, I certainly felt that being seen exercising would be as embarrassing and ostracizing as if a frat brother was seen picketing for gay marriage. It's a demonstration that you lack the fundamental principles of your peers. And yet one particularly booze-fogged Sunday morning, I rubbed my gut and realized I was going to have to do something to counteract all that beer and Taco Bell.
My intro to exercise started with a
kenpo karate class. I kept it closeted because it was too embarrassing being the guy who signs up for a martial arts class after watching a ton of kung-fu movies, which is exactly what I did. Kenpo was a great cardio workout that included some strength training, and it felt
cool. I was learning
fighting techniques. Even though I would have gotten my ass fucking stomped in any real street fight, I thoroughly enjoyed the training, and I felt fit. I stuck with kenpo for about three years, and along the way I met Janet, who introduced me to running.
The first time Janet invited me to run on public city streets, I was mortified.
ME: “But… someone’s going to see me!”
JANET: “Uhhh, who cares?”
ME: “You don’t understand!”
JANET: “Get over yourself. Let’s go.”
Of course we immediately ran into a bunch of skuzzy, hungover-looking dudes I knew from some band. And there I was, in my running shorts, looking like Forrest fucking Gump. Mortified.
Anyway, I got over myself, and I took to running in a way I never imagined. I enjoy running because it’s something I can do by myself, on my schedule. I don’t rely on anyone and no one relies on me, and I enjoy the time alone. It’s a great opportunity to clear my head, think, not think, listen to music, whatever. I often listen to podcasts of
NPR and
This American Life. I can totally zone out, but I’m exercising. And when I’m done, I feel spent. I feel fit. I feel great.
I also like running because it’s so simple and lo-tech. There’s no equipment you have to buy other than shoes. As long as you have shoes, you can run anywhere. In fact, it’s quite fun to run in random new places. I always take running shoes
when I travel and love using distance runs to explore. My long runs in LA have taken me to places I would never have gone in a car and helped me get to know the city much faster.
Last week my friend
Phillip sent me an
essay from the New Yorker by Japanese author Haruki Murakami, an excerpt from his forthcoming book
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. It was an inspiring read and very closely mirrored many thoughts I’ve had about running but never thought to write down, until now. This line in particular stood out:
“In long-distance running the only opponent you have to beat is yourself, the way you used to be.”
I
love that.
Also, he’s right — there’s nothing better at the end of a marathon than a good beer. Murakami says he’s run at least one marathon every year for 23 years. Earlier this year I
completed my sixth. I hope to keep running as long as he has. Cheers, Haruki.
Oh yeah, the Dodgers game was super fun. We had some shitty nachos and a couple of beers that cost a million dollars, but sitting in that stadium with 50,000 people cheering for the home team (who lost) in a game where almost nothing happened (there were a total of four runs) was pretty incredible. I think I'm starting to get it.
