I Choose to Keep Running — Lather, Rinse, Repeat

Running is my life — although I don’t mean that in the way you might think.

Running is not my No. 1 passion, maybe not even a passion at all. I do enjoy it — a lot. I run more days than not, because it makes me feel good physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually. Running has become a habit for me. A good one. A healthy one. Something I truly look forward to.

But I don’t run in races. I don’t read running magazines or watch running videos or buy expensive running gear or drink special drinks to make me run better. I’ve purchased three pairs of running shoes in the last year, all from the same small running store, spending a grand total of about $200 and 15 minutes along the way.

So while running is important to me, I don’t eat, sleep, and breathe it. I don’t live for it and die for it — although I do try not to die for it.

When I say “running is my life,” I mean that running represents my life. Running symbolizes my life.

Some magical days, running is almost effortless. The present envelops me with strength and confidence as I glide one foot in front of the other. The future (how far I’m running) motivates me from a respectful distance without depressing me or overtaking me. And the past (how far I’ve already run) doesn’t even show up on my radar screen. I’m actually in the moment, enjoying myself, feeling, well, present. I’m not looking too far ahead, as I’m so prone to do. And I’m certainly not looking back. I’m here and now in the here and now.

Other days are the complete opposite. The present literally disorients me as I struggle to keep going, my strides as apt to trip me up as they are to propel me. The future dominates my thinking as it taunts me from a seemingly insurmountable distance, sticking its tongue out and shouting, “You’ll never get me!” And the past sneaks up behind me constantly too, letting me know how little progress I’ve made despite all the effort I’m putting in. I’m not present in the present at all. I’m just the defenseless ball in a nasty game of mental ping-pong between what’s next and what’s past.

Running is my life. Pick your day.

I wish I could have more days soaking up the present and fewer days chasing the future and drowning in the past. I can. That much I know. But alas, there’s a catch: There’s work involved — lots of it — for any and all of us who want this wish to come true.

There is physical work: eating well, sleeping (this one is surprisingly complicated for me), training, practicing, persevering.

There is psychological work: adopting a growth-oriented mindset, as author Carol Dweck writes about in her bestselling book Mindset — a way of being that boils down to thinking, and believing, “I’m not there yet” vs. “I’ll never get there.”

There is emotional work: allowing myself to feel whatever feelings I’m having, knowing that feelings can never be wrong and yet understanding that I can change the way I feel by changing the way I think and act.

There is spiritual work: talking to God constantly, in my own way, asking him/her/it to not only keep me alive, but to also help me find clarity and joy.

And, of course, like everyone else, I have to do this same damn physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual work every day, day in and day out. It’s just like the ridiculous directions on the shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat.

I don’t mind the lathering. I don’t mind the rinsing. It’s the repeating I can’t stand.

But I have to follow the directions to the letter, frustrating as they are. Because running is my life and always will be. And I have to constantly decide whether I’m going to keep running or quit.

I choose to keep running.

I choose to keep running.

I choose to keep running.

Peter Vogt

I’m a writer. An essayist, to be more exact. I tell stories here—true stories, from my own life, in hopes they will make a positive difference in yours.

I share laughs and tears, insights and observations, frustrations and realizations, relying all the while on the storytelling wisdom of Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write.

It is a great paradox that the more personal, focused, and specific your writing becomes, the more universally it communicates.