I'm walking up a lush green mountain in Coorg, India. There is a slight drizzle and thick fog rolling down the hill like a flock of sheep. The air is clean and if you have come from one of the big Indian cities known for terrible air quality, you can feel the difference in your lungs. Western-educated Indian tourists call this the Scotland of India, a name that centers the place in the minds of the global audience while giving away the desperation Indians have to measure everything against the west. Around half a mile in I struggle to measure up against the mountain. I lose my breath, and my hands are on my knees like I just finished running a marathon in under 3 hours. My friends rightfully make fun of me. This is the moment I decided to start running. I needed to lose about 25 pounds and stop getting all my nutrients at Domino's.
Yes, I've read the Murakami book on running; It’s an excellent personal narrative about grit and persistence. I hate running and usually give up the moment I hit minimum viable runners high. If the Murakami book is about grit, mine would be about doing the least possible to create a palpable difference in body and mind.
In India, I only ran on the treadmill at the gym. Running on the streets made you feel like an American soldier on a boat going up a river in Vietnam, screaming, "the horror, the horror." So I tried going on runs at ungodly early hours to escape the whirlwind of dust and people. Usually sleep-deprived and manic, the only other people I came across were men running barefoot in preparation for a holy trip to a temple in the mountains. "Different kind of manic state" I used to murmur to myself as I passed them.
The first pictures I posted upon moving to the US were of my running route in a desolate suburb of Houston. The running environment had inverted from a whirlwind of people to people who only got out of their houses to go for a run. The simulated purposefulness of everyone outside their home was the first thing I noticed about the American suburb. People looked scared to look like they didn't have a purpose while on a suburban sidewalk. God forbid you stop for a moment and get found out to be a communist out on a walk.
I met a girl in Houston who liked running. I liked her, and she was the only person I ever matched with on Tinder, so I doubled down on running. We didn't date for the first three months so my regular excuse to hang out with her was, "hey let's go running." We would run two miles; I'd then start walking while she kept running. It was embarrassing, but I was not listening to any Jordan Peterson or Jocko Willinick, so I didn't feel any less manly. In fact, the idea of being a man didn't even cross my mind; I was just glad someone wanted to spend time with me. The longest I ran with her was 10 miles around Memorial Herman Park. We were in a relationship for two years; she ran two marathons and I ran none. I should have seen the writing on the wall at that point.
I stopped running after we broke up and focussed on the national sport for people who can't run - lifting weights. About three months ago, lifting weights started to give me less of an endorphin rush than it used to. The winds of fate also led me to buy a pair of Brooks Ghosts, more for the fashion than the running. Then while on my regular walk for my stupid mental health, I felt like running, "oh I'm doing it Im doing it" I kept repeating in my head. I ran about 3 miles, grateful for everything this endeavor I hate had led me to. Maybe I'd start liking running now. I stopped my run and took a deep breath, then sneezed back to back till my nose started bleeding. I had picked a pollen-saturated day to start running. "I hate this ...*sneeze* fucking shit *sneeze* why do I keep doing it"
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