Why I Run

The Olympic Games have dominated the news in the past week. Part of the appeal is that the athletes seem so normal. They have parents. They go to school. They eat. In fact, there is now a Facebook page called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets."

When we listen to their stories, transfixed as we are by the minutiae of their lives, it is as if, in their "normalcy," we can almost see ourselves; as if by achieving the same degree of masochistic discipline, we might also turn ourselves into the better versions of ourselves that we know are hiding somewhere.

But I think another reason the athletes fascinate us is that there is a meditative, almost spiritual quality to them. It seems to permeate everything, from their training regimens to their very demeanor on that nerve-wracking world stage of Olympic sports.

I ran my first half marathon in March of this year, a few months before my 37th birthday.

There are no elaborate explanations for how I started running. I used to run in college, until I didn’t want to anymore. For a long time, I maintained a sedentary lifestyle. Medical school, marriage, residency, and fellowship provided convenient excuses.

But 3 years ago, a friend was diagnosed with cancer, and soon after that she started running. She started off with just 2 miles every day, and I thought to myself that if she, with her new life-altering reality, can run, shouldn’t I, too, be challenging myself to do something good for myself?

I couldn’t even run 2 miles. I started with half a mile and was done.

Three years later I finally ran a half-marathon. Three years. There are books out there that promise you can go from "couch to [insert whatever goal you want]" in 13 weeks or 26 weeks. It took me 3 years.

The reality is, if you keep at something consistently, you’ll get comfortable with it, and it may take 13 weeks, but it may not. When I encourage patients to exercise, I don’t frame it in terms of achieving a goal in a given time period. Consistency is very frequently just as important as goal setting; there is no need to torture yourself by setting expectations too high.

I don’t particularly enjoy running, but I don’t mind it either. It is inexpensive, does not require a lot of training, and your only competitor is yourself. You decide when you’re done. You can run and chat with friends or listen to music or podcasts. Or you can run with only your internal monologue for company. You can run at the gym and watch your favorite reality show (anyone with a guilty pleasure out there?), or run in your neighborhood and make friends with neighborhood pets.

Another added advantage, for those who might have some expendable income, is that you can run for a cause. The Arthritis Foundation, for example, is a great cause we can all get behind.

And then there’s the proverbial "runner’s high." If this is real (and there is not much evidence that it is), I didn’t get it. Or at least I did not experience what I expected it to feel like. However, I did feel an overwhelming sense of having accomplished something when I ran the half marathon. The last 2 miles of the race course were lined with spectators cheering us on, reaching out to slap hands with us, and holding up signs of people running for various causes. This was an extremely emotional moment for reasons I cannot explain scientifically, but I cried seeing those placards.

After that first half-marathon, I did not run as consistently as I should have, for various reasons (a family emergency; a subsequent soleus injury from, perhaps, stretching too enthusiastically after a run). But I signed up for another half marathon, coming up in 2 weeks, thereby forcing myself to get back to my regimen. And I discovered a wonderful thing when I started up again: My mood improved greatly. I did not even know that I was dysthymic until I started running again.

Haruki Murakami, famous writer of (really strange) Japanese fiction, is also an avid runner and has several marathons under his belt. Not only has he run the Boston Marathon, one of the hardest marathon courses, he has also run the real Marathon, from the site of the battle of Marathon to Athens (which thankfully survived, in contrast to Pheidippides’s unfortunate outcome). Murakami started running later in life as well, and documents this in his book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008).

Perhaps my favorite line in the book, and my ultimate reason for running: "Somerset Maugham once said that in each shave lies a philosophy. ... No matter how mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act."

And, in fact, that previously mentioned Facebook page, the one called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets," its page description says "like if you love Usain Bolt’s calm relaxed personality."

Dr. Chan practices rheumatology in Pawtucket, R.I.

The Olympic Games have dominated the news in the past week. Part of the appeal is that the athletes seem so normal. They have parents. They go to school. They eat. In fact, there is now a Facebook page called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets."

When we listen to their stories, transfixed as we are by the minutiae of their lives, it is as if, in their "normalcy," we can almost see ourselves; as if by achieving the same degree of masochistic discipline, we might also turn ourselves into the better versions of ourselves that we know are hiding somewhere.

But I think another reason the athletes fascinate us is that there is a meditative, almost spiritual quality to them. It seems to permeate everything, from their training regimens to their very demeanor on that nerve-wracking world stage of Olympic sports.

I ran my first half marathon in March of this year, a few months before my 37th birthday.

There are no elaborate explanations for how I started running. I used to run in college, until I didn’t want to anymore. For a long time, I maintained a sedentary lifestyle. Medical school, marriage, residency, and fellowship provided convenient excuses.

But 3 years ago, a friend was diagnosed with cancer, and soon after that she started running. She started off with just 2 miles every day, and I thought to myself that if she, with her new life-altering reality, can run, shouldn’t I, too, be challenging myself to do something good for myself?

I couldn’t even run 2 miles. I started with half a mile and was done.

Three years later I finally ran a half-marathon. Three years. There are books out there that promise you can go from "couch to [insert whatever goal you want]" in 13 weeks or 26 weeks. It took me 3 years.

The reality is, if you keep at something consistently, you’ll get comfortable with it, and it may take 13 weeks, but it may not. When I encourage patients to exercise, I don’t frame it in terms of achieving a goal in a given time period. Consistency is very frequently just as important as goal setting; there is no need to torture yourself by setting expectations too high.

I don’t particularly enjoy running, but I don’t mind it either. It is inexpensive, does not require a lot of training, and your only competitor is yourself. You decide when you’re done. You can run and chat with friends or listen to music or podcasts. Or you can run with only your internal monologue for company. You can run at the gym and watch your favorite reality show (anyone with a guilty pleasure out there?), or run in your neighborhood and make friends with neighborhood pets.

Another added advantage, for those who might have some expendable income, is that you can run for a cause. The Arthritis Foundation, for example, is a great cause we can all get behind.

And then there’s the proverbial "runner’s high." If this is real (and there is not much evidence that it is), I didn’t get it. Or at least I did not experience what I expected it to feel like. However, I did feel an overwhelming sense of having accomplished something when I ran the half marathon. The last 2 miles of the race course were lined with spectators cheering us on, reaching out to slap hands with us, and holding up signs of people running for various causes. This was an extremely emotional moment for reasons I cannot explain scientifically, but I cried seeing those placards.

After that first half-marathon, I did not run as consistently as I should have, for various reasons (a family emergency; a subsequent soleus injury from, perhaps, stretching too enthusiastically after a run). But I signed up for another half marathon, coming up in 2 weeks, thereby forcing myself to get back to my regimen. And I discovered a wonderful thing when I started up again: My mood improved greatly. I did not even know that I was dysthymic until I started running again.

Haruki Murakami, famous writer of (really strange) Japanese fiction, is also an avid runner and has several marathons under his belt. Not only has he run the Boston Marathon, one of the hardest marathon courses, he has also run the real Marathon, from the site of the battle of Marathon to Athens (which thankfully survived, in contrast to Pheidippides’s unfortunate outcome). Murakami started running later in life as well, and documents this in his book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008).

Perhaps my favorite line in the book, and my ultimate reason for running: "Somerset Maugham once said that in each shave lies a philosophy. ... No matter how mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act."

And, in fact, that previously mentioned Facebook page, the one called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets," its page description says "like if you love Usain Bolt’s calm relaxed personality."

Dr. Chan practices rheumatology in Pawtucket, R.I.

The Olympic Games have dominated the news in the past week. Part of the appeal is that the athletes seem so normal. They have parents. They go to school. They eat. In fact, there is now a Facebook page called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets."

When we listen to their stories, transfixed as we are by the minutiae of their lives, it is as if, in their "normalcy," we can almost see ourselves; as if by achieving the same degree of masochistic discipline, we might also turn ourselves into the better versions of ourselves that we know are hiding somewhere.

But I think another reason the athletes fascinate us is that there is a meditative, almost spiritual quality to them. It seems to permeate everything, from their training regimens to their very demeanor on that nerve-wracking world stage of Olympic sports.

I ran my first half marathon in March of this year, a few months before my 37th birthday.

There are no elaborate explanations for how I started running. I used to run in college, until I didn’t want to anymore. For a long time, I maintained a sedentary lifestyle. Medical school, marriage, residency, and fellowship provided convenient excuses.

But 3 years ago, a friend was diagnosed with cancer, and soon after that she started running. She started off with just 2 miles every day, and I thought to myself that if she, with her new life-altering reality, can run, shouldn’t I, too, be challenging myself to do something good for myself?

I couldn’t even run 2 miles. I started with half a mile and was done.

Three years later I finally ran a half-marathon. Three years. There are books out there that promise you can go from "couch to [insert whatever goal you want]" in 13 weeks or 26 weeks. It took me 3 years.

The reality is, if you keep at something consistently, you’ll get comfortable with it, and it may take 13 weeks, but it may not. When I encourage patients to exercise, I don’t frame it in terms of achieving a goal in a given time period. Consistency is very frequently just as important as goal setting; there is no need to torture yourself by setting expectations too high.

I don’t particularly enjoy running, but I don’t mind it either. It is inexpensive, does not require a lot of training, and your only competitor is yourself. You decide when you’re done. You can run and chat with friends or listen to music or podcasts. Or you can run with only your internal monologue for company. You can run at the gym and watch your favorite reality show (anyone with a guilty pleasure out there?), or run in your neighborhood and make friends with neighborhood pets.

Another added advantage, for those who might have some expendable income, is that you can run for a cause. The Arthritis Foundation, for example, is a great cause we can all get behind.

And then there’s the proverbial "runner’s high." If this is real (and there is not much evidence that it is), I didn’t get it. Or at least I did not experience what I expected it to feel like. However, I did feel an overwhelming sense of having accomplished something when I ran the half marathon. The last 2 miles of the race course were lined with spectators cheering us on, reaching out to slap hands with us, and holding up signs of people running for various causes. This was an extremely emotional moment for reasons I cannot explain scientifically, but I cried seeing those placards.

After that first half-marathon, I did not run as consistently as I should have, for various reasons (a family emergency; a subsequent soleus injury from, perhaps, stretching too enthusiastically after a run). But I signed up for another half marathon, coming up in 2 weeks, thereby forcing myself to get back to my regimen. And I discovered a wonderful thing when I started up again: My mood improved greatly. I did not even know that I was dysthymic until I started running again.

Haruki Murakami, famous writer of (really strange) Japanese fiction, is also an avid runner and has several marathons under his belt. Not only has he run the Boston Marathon, one of the hardest marathon courses, he has also run the real Marathon, from the site of the battle of Marathon to Athens (which thankfully survived, in contrast to Pheidippides’s unfortunate outcome). Murakami started running later in life as well, and documents this in his book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008).

Perhaps my favorite line in the book, and my ultimate reason for running: "Somerset Maugham once said that in each shave lies a philosophy. ... No matter how mundane some action might appear, keep at it long enough and it becomes a contemplative, even meditative act."

And, in fact, that previously mentioned Facebook page, the one called "My Name Is Usain Bolt And I Love Chicken Nuggets," its page description says "like if you love Usain Bolt’s calm relaxed personality."

Dr. Chan practices rheumatology in Pawtucket, R.I.