By Petra Robertson
I never run with music on. This seems counterintuitive, because I’ve read the millions of articles on how music helps pump us up, run faster, breath stronger. But I don’t subscribe to this. I don’t run to be in shape, and I don’t run for time. I run at a pretty medium speed – not too slow, not too fast – and I never run more or less than two miles. I don’t run because I feel obligated, I run to run.
My favorite part of running is the first 45 seconds and the last 45 seconds for two completely different – yet very similar – reasons. The beginning is the best because the air is clear, my muscles are strong, and I feel the freest. I take long strides and I practically bound from one sidewalk crack to another. Unfortunately, asthma only affords me a short amount of time feeling this way, until I begin wheezing like those dogs with their noses pushed in. I love the ending for the exact opposite reason. The end is the most difficult part; it’s when my muscles are the weakest, when I feel like I’m literally seconds away from coughing up blood from my lungs, when I feel like there’s no way I could possibly run for any longer. But in those last 45 seconds I know it’s almost over, and I get this strange superpower. For a short amount of time, I am able to forget the pain, I stretch my legs out yet again, and I bound from sidewalk crack to sidewalk crack. The distance between where I am and my natural stopping point – the Coopers’ mailbox – seems to never reach zero. No matter what distance I make, it’s always far away. Until I reach it. The relieving feeling I get when I stop is liberating. Just as liberating at the feeling I get during the first 45 seconds.
I take my slow walk from the Cooper’s mailbox to my mailbox, and then to my garage, and then to my kitchen. As I walk, I like to just hear myself breathe. I like to look at my chest rapidly moving up and down. There’s something fascinating about the necessity of breathing, something shocking about how I see myself breathing, yet I am not telling my lungs to do anything. The simple fact that I need air compels my lungs to expand before I even have the chance to resonate it. I like the feeling of the biting cold on my skin, and how my forehead vaguely throbs from sucking in the cold air. When I stop running, all the pain I should have been feeling comes rushing back to me. My ears hurt from the cold, my legs are sore, and I could just collapse right there on my driveway if given the chance. But this only lasts for a little while. I think most people would agree that the feeling you get when you’re finished running is by far the best. It’s a sense of accomplishment. I’ve never run competitively, and I’ve always played only team sports. Running gives me the opportunity to compete against myself and for myself. There’s no one there encouraging me along because it’s just me, pushing myself.
So, I never run with music on. People tell me this is odd, but I don’t see how it could be done any other way. Don’t get me wrong, I love music. I listen to music when I shower, when I drive, and when I do work. But I don’t listen to music when I run. If I listened to music while running, then how could I hear the slap of my shoes on the pavement? How could I hear the deer rustling through the woods? How could I hear the soft laughter coming from inside the houses I pass by? How could I think? I do my best thinking when I run. By not listening to music, I force myself to think. What other way to take my mind off the fact that my chest feels like it’s on fire? I write long essays while running. In fact, I wrote a much better version of this essay on a run less than 20 minutes ago. Of course, these essays will never see the light of day. Their very essence is defined by the fact that they live in my head. That’s why they’re special. I could never attempt to replicate what goes on in my mind on paper, but that’s just the way I like it. Everything is between me, the air, and the pavement.
For me, running is control. These days, there are so few things that I can be certain in saying I have complete control over. Whether it’s school, college, relationships, current events, or what we’re having for lunch today, I have very little control over my life. I do, however, have control over my legs. In my gender studies class we talked about what we like about our bodies, and a lot of people talked about how they liked what their bodies could do, as opposed to how they looked. For me, it’s my legs. I couldn’t say honestly that I feel anything more than indifferent about how my legs look, but I love them for what they can do. Every time I run, I get to make my own decision to take one more step. It’s up to me to decide where to run, how long to run, and how far. And it’s a different kind of control than controlling myself in order to do work. It’s me controlling my body. It’s such a simple function, something we were born knowing how to do, yet somehow it feels so powerful. When I look down and see my legs, flushed pink from the cold, I feel in control. No matter what, I can control my legs to just keep running.
So, in short, I run to run. Though I enjoy the feeling of being in shape, that’s just a perk.. I love school, but no matter how much I say that, on some level school is always going to be about achievement and grades. Running is the only thing I have that I do just for the joy of doing it. Just for the joy of doing it purely for myself. That is why I never run with music on.