What Am I Running From?

Recently I spent a blissful weekend backpacking on the Appalachian Trail with an old friend.  We had perfect weather and the trip was more than just good for me, it was therapeutic.  I could feel the stress and anxiety leaving my body as we slowed down life for two blessed days and made due with the 25 pounds we had on our backs. 

While we were sitting around the campfire sipping bourbon, my buddy kept hitting me up for fitness advice.  He’s a workaholic who runs his own business, and to be blunt, he’s obese.  Part of the impetus for the trip was to get him to start shedding some pounds and to detox his stressful lifestyle, even if just for a weekend.

I detailed my fitness routines of cycling and running to him, and tried to espouse the kind of advice that I wish someone would have given me 20 years ago. 

After one particular long pause he looked at me and said  “What are you running from?”

Separation

You’ve spent half your life trying to turn the other half around
– From “Six O’Clock News“, by Kathleen Edwards

Some say that those who participate in the suffering of endurance sports are running from something.  Whether it be childhood trauma, depression, addiction, divorce, or any number of life’s woes. 

Others suggest they’re actually running toward something – a new life, a new start, a sense of accomplishment, or just a personal record.  For me it’s probably both. 

I’ve written about my childhood before.  I was a wreck.  And on top of it I had a father who intentionally compounded the pain.  Even though I eventually learned to build some calluses on my mind the memories are still there. 

My initial attempt to deal with my childhood was to become a functional alcoholic.  I did that for a good 20 years, it was by far my biggest financial mistake.  While the ‘functional’ part did wonders for my career, the alcoholic part was nothing but destructive. 

I was left financially successful, but still full of demons.  If it were as easy as buying some “demon-b-gone” on Amazon I could afford a truckload of it, and my problems would be solved.

I have no doubts that my running, cycling, and mountaineering serve in some way as a means to deal with my past.  The movement, the struggle, and the pain of endurance activities create the illusion of separation, detachment, and disconnection. 

As if I could possibly negate undesirables from the past with a 5 mile loop through the neighborhood.  It sure sounds silly, but the brain does silly things. 

My endurance activities also have an undercurrent of hope.  There’s a subliminal feeling that if I just keep cresting another hill I’ll arrive and reach my potential.  Or reach closure, whatever that is.

There’s A Baby In That Bathwater

After I got home from the AT weekend I thought about the hard hitting question from my friend over the campfire that night and it made me reflect.  Sure, some part of doing a 200 mile bike ride is about the past, however small. 

But much of my past is good, especially my relationship with money and material possessions.  It’s given me financial independence and delivered me to the here and now, a life of freedom and unlimited options. 

I realize I have to be careful with this separation that my endurance activities seek.  There’s a baby in the bathwater of that past, and I don’t want to be separated from him. 

Admitting that I might be partially running from demons opened up the space to be proud of my angels, and to run back toward them.  And I know there are more angels over the next hill.

How Did I Answer?

In the moment my friends question put me back on my heels.  There’s nothing better than a tough and direct question from a friend with a truth-bomb embedded to get your brain scrambling for answers.  Hell I could have lied or laughed it off, but he knows me too well.

So on the spot I said “I’m probably running from something”, but then I quickly added “but I’m also wealthier than my wildest dreams, and it’s bought me my freedom.  The future is wide open and bright.  I guess I’m running towards more of that”. 

He didn’t respond, but I could tell he got it.