100 Words Per Mile: Is This All Wasted Time?
Or do I just need more pizza?
January 23, 2022
18.00 miles
2:35:19
Eighteen miles! Just as my in-laws arrived in town—and thank god they ordered pizza! There was a time where breaking my previous records meant running one more mile. This time I’ve run three more and all three were part of an extensive retread. It was both awful and exhilarating. When I reached the thirteen mile mark—half marathon territory—I was surprised by how full my tank felt. Miles thirteen through fifteen actually felt like a breeze, and then I hit a wall about half a mile after that.
There was a lot on my mind during my run today, a lot of doubting myself, or at least, doubting my choices and priorities. This has been one of the harder things about growing older and becoming a parent. To what extent do I pursue my own happiness, and am I capable of amending what makes me happy? I’ve written plenty about baseball cards, running, getting pregnant, writing, and building my bar (which has come along very nicely), but some of this stuff really pulls me away from my wife and my family. As you can see, I ran for two and a half hours today, all alone. Is this an ideal path for me?
This is probably going to turn out to be a bit of empty rambling, more philosophical than earnest. The running has revealed a runway to peace for me. The baseball cards have given me a material measurement of fun. What’s going to happen when I find time to read again. Or, will I find time to read? I know time will open itself to me once this marathon is over with. The question is, what will be the best way to spend that time? Does this all sound trivial and pointless to you? Maybe that’s my point. It’s difficult to be intentional in a trivial existence. This whole exercise began as a pursuit to be good, but now I’m not sure what good means in this new life I’ve built. Are my distractions just a more palatable version of my previous distractions? Am I still seeking escape?
Again, let me apologize. I’m in a bit of a funk right now. Could be I need a cookie or a beer or some other pick-me-up after running eighteen miles. Actually, let me go grab another slice of pizza.
Like writing a novel—or writing in general—the battle between monotony, discipline, and delayed gratification that comes with running is unavoidable. Just as it feels about 40,000 words into a novel, this stretch of marathon training is starting to feel like wasted time. Sure, I’ll come out having accomplished something, but considering the time and effort required to accomplish that thing, does it matter if I don’t do it well? After all, I wrote a novel, and it feels cool to say I did that, but as of writing this bit here, nobody seems to want it. Was the project worth the days of homework I assigned myself?
