Running on Friday

      “I can’t believe you were running in all that wind and dust,” was the first thing my neighbor said when I hobbled toward my front yard. They’d seen me somewhere along A Street.

      “Thanks for calling it running,” I said. “It feels pretty pedestrian.”

      “You had a huge tailwind when I saw you. You were flying.”

      “Thanks. Spread that around. Tell everyone you know.”

      My neighbor was correct to be astonished. After a couple of miles, when I was past the point-of-no-return, when it was quicker to keep on running toward home, I wondered about my decision and whether I was being prudent. I had swallowed enough dust and fought enough wind to question my own sanity.

      Friday was one of those February days designed by nature to send newcomers back home and cause natives to wonder if there wasn’t someplace better to live. The skies were brown with dust, it was 62*, and the wind was blowing a consistent 22 miles per hour. I was running because it seemed too dangerous to try cycling; some might say – my neighbor, for example – it was also too foolish to try running.

      Here’s the thing: While I love to run, even in bad weather, I’ve never been particularly good at it. My only native athletic skill is perseverance. I’ve never been quick, or agile, or graceful.

      And nowadays, what I call running is really a race-walk. I call it running because I want to be a runner, because I’m wearing my New Balance running shoes, and I keep track in my running log. I doubt I ever have both feet off the ground at the same time, which is one of the definitions for race-walking.

      I tried race-walking for a while; I researched technique and training and worked at it. But in the end, I found it frustrating and tedious. I spent too much time thinking about what I was doing instead of thinking about everything else, which why I enjoy running in the first place. So, one day I switched back to running. Right away I enjoyed it more and looked forward to it more. But I must admit … what I call running is indistinguishable from race-walking to anyone but me. The difference between the two is entirely mental.

      Whether I call it running or race-walking, it’s irritated me for the past five years that I can’t move any faster than a 15-minute pace. And then it occurred to me that maybe my plodding pace was an active defense on the part of my mind and body to protect my knees. Because I always have one foot on the ground, my body has eliminated shock waves from running through my knees. I should stop complaining. I should be thankful, instead.

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      In his book, The Common Rule, Justin Whitmel Earley links our daily habits to liturgy. “Calling habits liturgies may seem odd, but we need language to emphasize the non-neutrality of our day-to-day routines … our unconscious habits fundamentally reshape our hearts, regardless of what we tell ourselves about what we believe.” I wasn’t sure if I liked using the word liturgies regarding habits, but I don’t know of a better word to describe how an activity like running can become a spiritual practice,

      I started running in 1978 because I wanted to impress a girl. I continued to run because I loved being alone inside my own head. Over time and miles that solitude morphed into my best meditation and prayer time. The repetition draws me toward God and has changed my heart. Now, I run because that’s what I do and who I am.

      It’s true: we become our habits. How about you? What long habits have shaped your life?

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32