Every type of run

It always starts in the morning. I can recall a time, we were staying in Menton, a city that is nuzzled right along the French and Italian border. It sits on the Mediterranean in the same quiet, unassuming way that most coastal cities do. We made our espressos and sat on the still-shaded balcony. The ocean was only about 50 meters from where we sat and, traced along the edge of the city, was a seawall not all that unlike the one we have here, in Vancouver. Quite like here, there were runners. The familiar and unmistakable sound of shoe to pavement, the swinging arms that swish the same no matter the pace. The inhales, sometimes exhausted and other times exhilarated. Each time another runner passed, that feeling rose. It rose to my chest and then to my throat and then again throughout my entire body. It is a craving, a call to movement and to home.

As many times as running has picked me up, it has thrown me out on my ass. Asking me for more, underdelivering on the escape I thought I needed, draining me for the entire day. But it is a process I have never regretted, never turned my back on and one that has led me to where I am now. I’ve tried to write about this in the past, but the rhythm and pace of it seemed off, forced. I recall late summer nights in Kitsilano, finding my way to the sea, just to see it, just to move myself there on my own two feet. Running gave me that, the steadfast understanding that you are responsible for yourself. There were smoky days in August where I tried and my body rejected the cardio and poor air quality. Quiet holiday Mondays, when the lights changed on demand and the city moved at a speed neither rushed nor lazy. The spring this year was lovely, the roads slicked, yet the skies clear and the air sharp and cool. There were runs in new cities, new routes that began in new places that reminded me once again that I could be anywhere, yet I was still, will always be my own responsibility. On other occasions, I was out running in my hometown, along the long stretch of road by the airport where there is barely a shoulder and the broom and blackberry bushes extend out nearly kissing the road. The runs where I saw my pace drop, surprised at my own speed and strength as it pushed and pulled. I remember the milestones, generally speaking. I can hear the audio guided voice tell me the numbers that are truthfully irrelevant but mark not really progress, but commitment. A commitment to show up continuously. Speed up, slow down, plateau. There have been countless times I haven’t completed the run. Called for a ride, sat curb-side waiting for my mom or my dad. And yet again, there were times when they simply drove by, passing me a water bottle so that I could finish a 15km that started too late on too hot of a day.

Running asks you only to look forward, reminding you that the effort to turn back, to see who is behind you, is much more effort than it is worth. Some routes are unspectacular, but when they are, they are comforting. The same, reliable tree-lined streets. Running is the reminder that we have the capacity for hope and gratitude. Sweet, summer evenings on that long stretch of road by the airport, feel nostalgic both in the moment and in reflection. This road winds up to a view of the ocean where the salt of the air greets the salt of your sweat. And you may stop, find presence, or find a push to run further, harder until you find yourself with your shoes discarded and your feet in the waves.

Perhaps I would love running less if I lived inland or in a congested city with no sidewalk space for a fast-moving body. Running might feel like home because it is inextricably linked to everything I have known to feel like home. My mom, the runner of the family used to rise before the rest of us, and her workday, and run. Years later, my dad and my sister were members of the local running club. We spent years of our lives in track and field. And here we have always been, living near the ocean, running along it, to it, into it.