When we lived in MN, I used to run at our neighborhood YMCA. I was a younger and more dedicated runner then, lacing up my shoes about 6 times per week. I didn’t mind running in the cold, but in MN there are some months dedicated to ice, and some dedicated to oppressive humidity. When conditions were intolerable on either end of the spectrum, the track at the Y allowed me to never miss a workout. It was a hamster wheel of sorts — 9 laps to the mile — but for me it beat the treadmill because at least there was a slightly new view each time I rounded a corner. Large banks of windows allowed me to appreciate whatever was going on outside without having to experience it. They reversed direction on the track every other day, which helped with boredom. It had a cushiony surface, banked corners. A pretty nice track, all things considered, and I was happy to pay hefty dues every month just to have the option in my pocket.
I’m amazed when I think how many miles I must have logged during that decade. I could literally run that track with my eyes closed, and sometimes late at night when I was the only one there, I did. I’d crank up The Clash or Earth Wind & Fire and just set myself on auto-pilot. We had a relationship.
Until one day, when I showed up to run, and everything was different. The sign that used to say “9 laps = 1 mile” had been replaced by a new sign: “10 laps = 1 mile.”
The signs were identical. Except so not.
I wondered if I was crazy. I wondered if the previous years had been a dream. I wondered if I’d wandered into the wrong Y. I wondered what I’d ever done to deserve such uncaring treatment.
Had our entire relationship been a lie?
Now if you’re not a runner, you may not understand all the sacred nuances that go along with the “running practice,” but believe me, Runners have Things. And one of the things is that you can’t just casually take a runner’s hundreds of 4 mile runs and suddenly make them 3.6 miles, tacking up a new whatever and walking away like it’s nothing.
I complained at the front desk, of course. Loudly. The kid working there shrugged. “They found out it was wrong.” He did not apologize, nor offer to refund my steps, time, or money, but he did look annoyed.
I complained to friends and family. “Nothing’s changed! You’re not losing anything,” they assured me. And rolled their eyes a little. “Your runs still count! You’ve still done exactly as much work as you’d done before!” Was that supposed to help? They didn’t seem to understand the personal betrayal I felt.
For the record, I’m still not sure I believe it. For one thing, I’m in tune with my body. I know how many songs go into 4 miles. I know how long it takes. And when I’d race, my times held. The miles I logged at the Y felt the same as the ones I ran outside. So the whole thing messed with my head a little, in addition to pissing me off.
My feet know their truth. The track knows its truth. And whether or not the Y knows any truth hardly matters to me now. I’ve made my peace. Time helps things.
I’m just saying that, another decade down the road, the details of those disputed runs hardly matter. What does matter is just this: I’m still running.
Older, slower, and I let an app track my miles instead of counting laps in my head. The app might betray me someday too, but no matter because I’ll keep going. The steps themselves belong to me.
I get something from running I haven’t found anywhere else. It requires more than I think I have to give, every time I show up. In that way, I guess running helps me glimpse a truer picture of myself. And no matter who’s tracking the miles, they can’t take that away from me.