The Long Road Back

I started running as a joke.

That's how I framed it to myself, at least. It was 2002, and I was out of town on a college internship. I was living alone for the first time, and I wanted to change everything about myself. I'd been a husky kid all my life–that was the best term they had at the time for kids whose thighs chafed in the summer–and the idea of me running was so preposterous that had to cloak it in the guise of a gag, even if no one else was privy to it.

It was April Fool's Day, the perfect time for me to go running.

I didn't make it very far that evening, and I certainly wasn't fast. I stuck with it, though, and started grinding out a few slow, uneven, red-faced miles every night. I began losing weight, and the runs started getting easier. Fun, even. Before long, those runs were a regular part of my routine, but still, I shied away from calling myself "a runner". That word was for real athletes, the ones who made it look easy. The ones who'd been doing it all their lives, the ones who could run a race shirtless and not look like a drunk football fan who'd gotten onto the field.

I might've been running, but I wasn't a runner.

A few years after that first run, I decided I really needed to test myself, and I signed up for a marathon. I only told a couple close friends about my training, again held back by the seeming farce of me doing such a thing. I spent months doing long, lonely training runs on a quiet, flat stretch of road along the Ohio River, a place where not many people would see me. I finished the race–379th out of 552–and I got a small medal to prove it.

Look! Now I am a runner!

Over the next ten years, it became an obsession. I was never going to be great at it, but at least I could compile some stats. I moved to New York City, where there were organized races seemingly every weekend, and signed up for every one I could. 5Ks, 10Ks, 4-milers, trail runs, half-marathons, a couple more full marathons–I filled a shoebox with race bibs and my closet with giveaway t-shirts. Runner wasn't just a label I cautiously adopted; it was a huge part of my personality.

Life intervenes, though.

I moved from New York to Louisville and had a couple of kids. I started getting actual responsibilities at work. My weekends filled with birthday parties and household projects, and I found it harder or maybe just less necessary to spend every Saturday morning out on three-hour training runs. I did one more marathon when my kids were toddlers, telling myself it was proof I could still do it, and then... I just stopped. I couldn't justify the time it took. I wasn't 25 anymore, running off the beer I drank the night before. I had more important things to do.

A year and a half ago, I found myself in a pit.

It's not strange to slow down as you get older, and the idea of a 'dad-bod' is a well-worn trope at this point, but I didn't feel good about myself at all. I'd gained weight, and my feet hurt when I got out of bed every morning. I couldn't keep up with the kids the way I wanted to, and I didn't like the example I felt like I was setting for them. My old race medals hung in our basement storage room, and I felt like shit every time I walked by them. I used to be able to do that. I had time back then. A couple times, I even tried to go out for a run, but something would end up hurting before I could get very far. Maybe I just can't do it anymore.

Something had to change.

I focused first on eating better. That sounds silly from someone who's made a show of his love for stupid food over and over again in this very same newsletter, but it also explains why you've seen fewer deep-fried stunt dishes here in the past year-plus. To be clear, runners come in all shapes and sizes, and I'm not about to judge anyone else's physicality. I've lived in this particular body for four-and-change decades, though, and I knew that I wasn't going to be able to run without taking a few pounds off my knees and arches first.

I finally got into a consistent rhythm this winter, and started counting off first-in-a-whiles. That's the first time I've done that loop without stopping in a while. That's my first sub-10-minute mile in ages. That's the first time I've run three times in a week in years. I eased in carefully, fearful that I'd strain something and end up back where I began, but once I had a little confidence back, I signed up for a series of races, my first in nine years. I'd do the Louisville Triple Crown of Running–a 5K, 10K and 10-mile race spaced over the course of a month–and then cap it with the Kentucky Derby Festival's annual half-marathon.

They didn't all go exactly as planned, and life still found ways to intervene (I ran the 10-miler on no sleep the night after my daughter broke her arm roller-skating, and my performance reflected it). I finished them all, though, completing the half-marathon this past weekend in a time that, while far from my personal best, was better than I could've hoped for even six months ago.

I'm always tempted to end a rambling newsletter like this on some kind of big emotional hammer, especially since it can help gloss over what otherwise seems largely an effort in self-congratulation. I don't know if I can land that plane today, but I will say a couple things that I've had to learn for myself more than once in my life.

Whatever you want to be–a runner, a writer, an artist, a success of whatever sort–you determine the threshold for that, not anyone else. And if ever you think it's gone... well, maybe it's not.

Maybe it's just waiting for you to come running back.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go ice my knees.

–Scott Hines (@actioncookbook)