Marcie Ratliff/Winonan

Since running surfaced as a sport for the American masses in the 70s— thanks to hippie heroes like Steve Prefontaine and Frank Shorter, who made running seem effortless, and thanks to marketing campaigns aimed at the middle class from activewear giants like Nike—the trend has been to make running as enjoyable as possible by bringing everything possible along for the ride. Enter shoes with soles as thick as a double cheeseburger; shirts with pockets for iPods, phones, GPS units, spare keys; tight arm cuffs made specifically for holding music players; headphones which block out all but “Born to be Wild;” treadmills with fans and TVs attached. Today’s exercise enthusiasts see running as something necessary but undesirable, going on a run with equipment specially designed to make them forget they are running, to make them forget they are breathing and sweating, to make them forget they are alive, unlike poor Pheidippides, the wretch who inaugurated the marathon as he dashed from Marathon to Athens to proclaim the news of the Greek victory over Persia, gasping out his last breaths clad in nothing but his own sweat—assuming he had any sweat left by that time. Today’s fit and fabulous do their running in climate-controlled gyms, on treadmills programmed to keep them going even when they want to stop. They run with eyes glued on a TV screen, watching the minutes of fictional lives tick by.

I began running out of stupidity. All throughout elementary and middle school, the one bane of my otherwise idyllic life was The Mile, a torture PE teachers employed to measure how fit we were. It was four laps around a hellishly long side street with a cul-de-sac on the end, a cul-de-sac which on better days was a great place to build snow forts. I loathed The Mile, suffered through it,and tried to forget it. More often than not, tears were involved, along with dramatic breathing and lots of walk breaks. At age 13, however, I decided to join the track team at my new high school, where nobody knew what a wimp I was. However, the façade fell down the very first day of practice, where we were to run a 2.5 mile warm-up as a team. That was just the warm-up. Then we sprinted up a long, steep hill about 10 times.

No, I did not cry. But I walked, I jogged, I grimaced, I cursed myself for putting myself through such torture. I could barely walk that whole week, but I kept coming back to practice mainly because I have an ego the size of a Brooks Beast running shoe. I couldn’t quit because everybody would know. Small school, gossip and appearances and all that.

But something happened. Most runners can attest to this exercise in masochism—the longer you run, the more you enjoy the painful steps, the feeling of tight muscles after an effort, the amount of sweat you can wring out of a running singlet. I began to welcome the challenge of hills and the rhythm of miles and the fact that I was responsible to keep myself going. I grew to enjoy the solace of running at the very back of the pack, so that all I could hear was the wind blowing through the cornfields beside the road and my breath and my heartbeat. I came to love that sense of my mind, alone, and the ability I had, for an hour or even more, to be away from tasks and let my mind roam. I used the time for what I miss most when I don’t run: silence. Many people come up with great ideas in the shower, because they are relaxed and alone. I come up with ideas on the run.

Five-and-a-half years after that first day of track, I leave everything behind when I run except a key, which I tuck into my shoelaces; a water bottle only if I’m running away from civilization on a hot day; and a basic watch, which is always on my wrist. Sometimes I even leave the watch behind, running as fast as my body tells me to go. I have tried the headphone thing, back when I had a Sansa Clip, but those runs always ended in frustration with the cords, or inability to interpret what was going on around me. So I have never understood why people must bring so much media- and communication-related impedimenta along with them as they run. Does not the mind collect enough to keep itself lucid? Is not the cadence of the road enough to inspire song? I run outside most of the year, as I prefer to let the wind dry my sweat and let the sunrise, traffic, thought, or conversation with a friend hold my attention.