It’s 6:45 on a recent weekday morning, and I’m at the local middle school track. It’s dimly lit and somewhat dark. The only other person present is a middle-aged guy that I see there all the time. He is always oddly dressed for running, with long casual-wear pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and a jacket on top. His clothing always makes me suspicious, as does the fact that he is invariably talking when I pass him. He’s either very upset with his drive-through coffee drink or else he is conducting a high-level business phone call that involves millions of dollars. I never linger around him long enough to ascertain which.
The almost-iridescent white lines on the track beckon me, but I’m reluctant to plunge forward. I’m running quarters today, a series of loops around the track. I know that charging around as fast as I can builds strength and increases VO2 – the volume of oxygen consumed during aerobic exercise, but it’s physically uncomfortable. But I’m competitive, and I’m willing to suffer a bit to incrementally improve my running.
I no longer time my quarter splits; I don’t need concrete evidence that I am getting older and slower. But I run hard. During the first third of the track circumference I feel like a 10-year-old girl -- I can run forever. I breathe more deeply in the second third of my route, and I start to feel the creeping discomfort that will soon consume me. The last third is flat-out miserable – the effort mandates my total concentration. I focus on my form and the ever-diminishing distance to the endpoint. I collapse gratefully at the finish, and I begin a slow recovery jog.
As taxing as running can be, it can’t compare with the challenge of emotional stress or uncertainty. I’ve experienced plenty of that stuff: unpleasant client communications, disquieting business concerns, periodic family relationship worries, and occasional health afflictions. The periodic backdrop of worry and disappointment ranges from barely perceptible to, occasionally, abundantly present. It is the unpredictable terrain of life that unsettles me; I know I cannot anticipate the next stressful hurdle that might crop up.
But the beauty of physical effort is that you define its parameters. Though you may not be able to absolutely control the level of discomfort, you have the power to plan, anticipate, adjust, experience, and end aerobic exertion on your own terms. Runners and other fitness folk benefit from the predictability of physical labor.
My ninety-second jog is over, and I reluctantly view the rapidly approaching start of my next quarter sprint. The good news is that each heart-pounding step brings me closer to the end of my workout and begins the blissfully relaxing recovery period. On top of that, the spooky hoodie guy is leaving, walking away slowly while mumbling under his breath. Evidently, the pre-IPO transformation phase of his business is going poorly, or else he is plotting to hack the into the coffee rewards software to guaranty free coffee for life. I’m not sure which.
I reach the start and charge forward, eager to begin so I can have the absolute delight of finishing.