The Wanderer

A lifetime ago, I started running. I think most people could relate to that. In
terms of life milestones, running around is one of the first things we learn to
do. For whatever reason, we like to go fast. For most of my life I hated
running. Maybe a part of me still does. I remember early in elementary school,
I was maybe 7 or 8 at the time, we had to run a mile in gym class. There were
kids who brought their trainers to class that day, doing their daily stretches
preparing to beat the school record, kids who had spent their whole lives
running on playgrounds and sprinting to school. And then there was me,
run/walking my way to a passing grade, watching my friends pass me by,
sometimes more than once, as we circled the school’s track. I can still smell
the Massachusetts spring dew as I tried my hardest to catch up to my friends,
the tall grass prickling the back of my neck as I laid down at the finish line.

After that day, I avoided running like the plague. I always had a love for swimming, a childhood wanderlust of the oceans and lakes surrounding the places I lived. In the water was where I excelled, and I found comfort in the high school swim team where, for the first time in my athletic life, I carved out a little spot for myself to succeed. I worked hard in the swim team. By no means was I the best swimmer in the school, not even close. My school hadn’t lost a county championship in 40 years. Swimmers from my small catholic school garnered scholarships from the best universities in the countries for their talents. Me? I was just having fun.

Cut to Sophomore year of college. I was 19 years old, studying one of the hardest majors in one of the toughest universities in the country. Each day my classes would add to an endless pile of homework, coding assignments, and exams, and by the time I would finish
working each night, I would leave the library to find a moonlit campus. Stress was a given, and my anxiety was at an all-time high. So in between the classes and the assignments, I did what every college kid would do, I spent time with my friends, went out to bars and house parties, and made the absolute most of the best years of my life. I made the best friends I would ever have, and the adventures ensued. Life moved fast, and through the chaos of school and the excitement of new friendships, somehow, I began to feel some semblance of control.

And then COVID hit.

Moving home in the middle of a college semester is difficult at the best of times. I felt uprooted in a way. The life I was making for myself was now on pause, and there was no indication of when, or even if, it would go back to normal. The pandemic was a terrible time for everyone. Neighbors didn’t say hello anymore, the supermarkets were near empty, the masks failing to hide the fear. Jobs were on hold, and money was scarce. But in a way life was more peaceful, simpler than it was before. Sure I still had classes, but the mountain of work gradually turned into a hill and then a prairie. Anxiety was the defining emotion during this period of time. I felt lost, unsure, even broken. To be 19 in a global pandemic is to be lost on all fronts. And I coped with the overwhelming emotions in any way I could.

One night I got into a fight with my parents about something or the other. The clash between the person I was becoming and the person they thought I was becoming louder as the quarantine days turned into weeks. The feeling of misunderstanding was heavy. They didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and honestly neither did I. The pressure of wanting to be something different, someone unique and self-made was so drastically different to the hubris that defined my high school days. My parents saw me in a different light, and they felt their job was to help me navigate this turmoil however they saw fit. It was tough, not being the perfect kid anymore, but at that time, in that global state, that was who I was. That night, as I ran to my room and locked the door, my heart beating hard as a knot grew tighter in my chest, I felt the overwhelming need to escape. To do something, anything that would get me out of this room, this house, this rut. So, I put my headphones on and went for a run.

It was the first time since grade school that I ran for the sake of running. I turned down the road behind my house, the gravel familiar on my feet, thoughts running in my head faster than I could make sense of them. I felt disappointing, dissatisfied, incorrect. The ringing in my ears was loud, and I could physically feel the panic taking over me. I started walking faster, with no destination in mind. The beating of my heart was too loud to bare.

Frank Ocean’s “Nikes” started playing through my headphones, the familiar beat of the song calming me down momentarily as I dreamt of a life without turmoil and pain. My fast walk turned into a jog, and then a sprint. My footsteps matched the base of the song as I ran through my suburban neighborhood, the dark roads illuminated occasionally by streetlights, summer bugs fluttering through the night. I ran for almost an hour, with no direction or destination, just following the curves of the road. My heart began to calm down, settling into a running pace. My breathing became more controlled through the effort, and my mind began to feel still once more. There was a serenity I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I found my way home at some point. The lights illuminating my parents’ bedroom told me they were still up. A twinge of guilt came up. I hadn’t told my parents where I was going, they were probably worried. I caught my breath in the walk towards my front door, the memories of my life here passing by. The high of the run giving me strength as I made it to the door and stepped back into existence. I told my parents about the run and for the first time in a while they seemed happy. The pandemic was tough on them too.

After that day I started running constantly. Every night as the sun started its descent I would run beside it. As the moon appeared in the night sky, lone stars accompanying her in her travels, I found my way back. I would run until I got tired, or until my mind was cleared from the stress of the day. At some point I started running just because how good it would feel after, how accomplished I felt when I completed a goal. I kept thinking if I could do this, I could do anything.

I was consistent for a month or two and then I started getting my first inklings of pain. The sheer frequency of running started putting a toll on my legs, and the shin splints kept getting worse. I kept thinking I should take a break, but it felt too good running for me to think of stopping. For the first time in months, I felt motivated. I started coding for fun, creating side projects, and crushing my classes, I couldn’t give all that up just for some pain. In hindsight, I was like Icarus, flying high with no thought of the ground beneath me. And then the pain got worse.

I tried so many things to fix my legs. I bought new shoes, looked up running tutorials on YouTube, asked my friends for advice, but nothing worked. Finally I took a break, putting my trainers in the closet and hoping that rest and recovery would bring me back to the pavement in a few short weeks. But every bad day, every feeling of missed chance and failure, would make me want to run, and when I did, I would find myself right back where I started.

I never truly recovered from that pain. A few months ago, I took up running again. This time felt different. I was a college graduate, a working man. I could do anything I set my mind to, and my mind was dead set on completing a marathon. But as training grew tougher, my legs became brittle once more. Stopping felt impossible, inconceivable. But it had to be done.

The toll of not finishing a goal was heavy. In your 20s you feel invincible. But you’re not. In many ways we’re just kids with bank accounts. Those haunting questions of what we’re doing, where we’re going, what’s next, still occupy our minds. And when you set a goal and fail, it feels like taking a step back. I hate talking a step back.

I kept pushing myself for that marathon. I would pick up running every few weeks, running way too much to start off and having to take rest days the next day. For some reason it didn’t click to me that what I was doing wasn’t working. Until one day it hit me.

As the summer of 2024 neared, I began a cut. My goal was to lose 15 pounds while maintaining muscle mass and, most importantly, a consistent routine. Running came to mind as a great way to lose weight, but I wanted to ensure I could do so consistently. I removed the concept of marathon training from my mind for a moment and decided to run once a week for a mile or two. I started biking more as well, which helped maintain cardio while keeping pressure away from my legs. The weekly runs worked well, the weight was slowly coming off, and progress was finally coming. A few weeks in I bumped it up to two runs a week, focusing on form and breathing, and making sure I was recovering properly. Each run felt powerful. Each workout felt like it was working towards something greater. And as a result, every other aspect of my life began to fall into place.

I had more energy for work, less need
to drink, more time for friends and loved ones, and a body I was finally happy
with. Life was feeling good again.

Last week I decided to test myself. I wanted
to run for an hour straight, with the secondary goal of completing 5 miles. I
was nervous for it all week, and finally on Thursday after work, I went to the
gym and hopped on the treadmill.

The first 10 minutes felt great. This
was familiar, something I had practice in. I started with a quick warmup and
found a comfortable pace to continue. The next 50 minutes still very much in
the horizon, yet the only thing on my mind was the music in my ears and the
rhythm of my legs as they hit the track.

20 minutes in I was nearing 2 miles, my
legs were tired, but I felt strong. I kept thinking I had made it 1/3^rd
of the way already.

30 minutes in, halfway there, I was on
pace to complete my goal and was feeling motivated.

The next 10 minutes were a grind, every
step was a challenge but never for the wrong reasons. My legs felt strong, my
breathing was ragged, and my heart was racing. 40 minutes came and went.

45 minutes in, 75% of the way there. House
music and my own confidence was the only thing maintaining my pace. I was a
little over 4 miles in and I hadn’t stopped yet, nor was I planning to. At this
point I knew I could finish my goal, so I slowed down slightly to catch my breath.
I spent the next 15 minutes focused, powerful, and confident that I was going
to finish.

56 minutes in. 5 miles came and went. But
I wasn’t done.

60 minutes. I had finished.

I spent the next 5 minutes walking, catching
my breath, stretching, and recovering. A smile found its way onto my face, and
it had no intention of leaving. I thought back to that first run, almost 5
years ago now. So much had changed since then, but this feeling felt the same.
I had done it.

And this time I knew it was only the
beginning.