Passions Can be Fickle Things…
// October 27th, 2009 // Goals, Reflection
I did a lot of thinking this weekend about passion. Passion for, against, and in between. Passionate love, passionate hatred, and all else.
My entire life, I’ve been passionate about running. The burn in your lungs, the pangs of exhaustion in your legs, the steady pounding tempo of feet on pavement, the sweet aroma of exhaust and body odor, the heat of your body using every ounce of energy it has, the reliable rivers of sweat seeping from your every pore. There truly is nothing like it. I ran the Nike 10k on Saturday morning, which was reportedly the largest race that has ever been held (calling it “The Human Race,” Nike hosted simultaneous 10k races in major cities across the world) and I finished. This was approximately twice as long as I’ve ever run, because I’ve always been passionate about running.
I joined the cross country team in middle school one year so I could train for soccer. I was never very good, because I was a bit of a chunk and, as previously-stated, I was passionate about running. I generally came in towards the back of the pack, but I finished all the same. I was never a boost in the standings and I usually felt like an outsider, as I was basically the fat, slow, asthmatic kid on the cross country team, just like on the soccer team. However, I stuck it out, even though I was passionate about running.
In high school, I was relegated to the C-Team even though I was considerably more talented than at least half of the Junior Varsity. Why? Because I was the hefty, slowish, out of shape kid. Why? Because I was passionate about running, of course.
Since my first step into Guadalajara, this city has taken my breath away. Actually, as cliche as that sounds, it’s been absolutely true. Being 7,000ish feet in the air makes it really hard to breathe sometimes, especially when one is running (which, in case you’d forgotten, I’m quite passionate about). Here, everyone and their dog and their friend and their cockroach is a runner. (Ok, so maybe not the friend, but at least everyone and their dog and their cockroach.) Two weekends ago, two of our leaders ran and finished a marathon. That’s intense. Those people are passionate about their running. A week and a half ago, I decided to sign up for The Human Race. (Yes, that’s as hilarious to me as it might be to one or two of you. I had to sign up and pay a fee to be part of The Human Race. This is why Nike pays advertisers so much money.) Having never run that far, I figured I could do it no problem. Little did I know, my passionate hatred of running would make this one of the worst and best mornings of my life.
For my entire life, I’ve hated running. I mean passionately hated. There has never been anything I like less. I don’t mean all forms of running, though. Put a ball out there and I’m going to run fast and love it. Throw a frisbee out in front of me and I’ll sprint after it gleefully and lay out fully-horizontal to catch it. Give me someone to cover in a pickup game of football and I’m going to laugh while running stride for stride with them. But suggest to me running for exercise or running for the sheer joy of it, and you will see a look of shock, disdain, disgust, and distaste. That is simply not my idea of a good time. It’s boring, it hurts, there’s nothing even remotely fun about it, I get sweaty and stinky, and my body is built entirely not for that. I’m passionate about running.
For the first three miles, I was doing pretty well. I was taking my time, but still moving steadily. After that, my body decided to remind me that I’d never run further than that before, and it sincerely didn’t want to this particular morning either. I gave in. I walked sporadically over the last three miles, but only walked for a few minutes total in the entire race and, most importantly, I finished. My target finishing time was 1 hour flat, but I came in around 2.5 minutes over that, which I decided to be 100% content with. Yes, I said content. When I crossed that finish line and picked up my medal, I was excited. When I got my first hugs from people who could not have cared any less about my disgustingly sweaty body because they were just so proud of me and excited for me, I felt accomplished.
It’s funny what happens when you push through pain and disdain and passionate hatred. People are proud of you. You claim victory over the adversary. Your passions change. I can’t wait to do a 5k in a couple weeks. I’m looking forward to doing another 10k in January. Next year, I’m going to try to do a half-marathon here in Guadalajara. You know why?
Because I’m passionate about running.