I like to run. Ever since my friend and I set the record for the fastest mile at our middle school, I've liked running. The mile time was laughably slow, but seeing my name on a plaque in the gym felt so good that I convinced myself that a seven-minute mile was impressive. I convinced myself that I liked to run.
During the past seven years, I have run for different reasons. In my early high school days, I ran because my field hockey coach told me to. I quickly realized I was much better at running sprints on the track than I was at hitting the ball on a field. I sat on the bench for the majority of my field hockey career. But when I got a chance to go in for someone terribly injured or deathly dehydrated, I ran up and down the field like a gazelle. Wielding my stick, I ran over the ball time and time again - but man did I look quick while doing it.
I started running track in high school because there were boys on the team. I ran faster and faster so they would notice me. I still remembered how good it felt in middle school to have a group of people cheering me on as I crossed the finish line. This group shrunk and I internalized the tiny people and placed them inside of my head; I was constantly imagining that people were watching me and urging me on. I was Connelly, and I was a runner.
During my senior year of high school, I considered my participation on the debate team to be "sport" enough for me. I stopped running up and down fields and sprinting on tracks. I dragged myself to the gym because I was terribly afraid I would gain weight. I ran on the treadmill, slowly but surely, because I wanted to look good in my bathing suit.
College crept up on me and for the first few warm weeks of first year, I ran. I ran because the tiny cheerleaders inside my head told me to. I ran because there were cute guys everywhere and I was tan and my legs could fly by them, then hide behind a bush when I needed to catch my breath. I asked guys to run with me; I learned how to use exercise as a flirting device. Late at night, the September air still warm, I'd swing my ponytail in the faces of those around me, desperate for attention.
During the past seven years I have run for one reason. I have run so that others can see me. Who exercises when no one is looking? Who wears old rags to the gym because it's fine to sweat in them? Who runs around Grounds without an iPod in, deep in concentration, working toward a mysterious goal - a marathon, perhaps, or an iron man competition?
The satisfaction I got from running for others was never long-lasting. This is probably because I made up the fact that they were looking at me. When I couldn't run the last mile I wanted to run I would grow despondent and guilty. I wondered what others thought of me when they only saw me run around the track for four laps, what criticisms ran through their minds when they saw me slam on the "pause" button of the treadmill. Even when I completed the arbitrary workout I had created for myself, I wondered if I could have run more.
Last semester I ran seven miles every night for a week. Afterwards I would sit on the mat at the gym, or on the floor of my apartment and sigh deeply. I felt good because I was so tired I didn't know how else to feel. I also felt like I was missing something. Where was my medal? Was someone going to take me on a date to congratulate me? Would I at least get a T-shirt out of the ordeal?\nSo I decided to stop running for a while. Why? Because I didn't want to anymore. I hadn't really wanted to for a while.
After a few weeks of lifting five pound weights and pretending to bike on the stationary bike at the gym, I realized I missed running. I missed the imaginary friends in my head telling me that I was strong and that I was fast and that people were impressed by me. I decided to let them back in. They came streaming in, holding posters and wearing mini pleated skirts so when they jumped in the air they twirled in bright little circles. I told them they could stay, but they'd have to let me run for a different reason.
I run on the treadmill, and I run outside. Sometimes I run with a friend, sometimes I run by myself. Sometimes I run two miles, and sometimes I run eight. I still like it when people raise their eyebrows at my mileage; I still try to casually throw in my workout when I'm around my exercise-phobic friends. But I don't want to run for them anymore. I'm not sure when the longing for attention will cease, but I am sure I can answer my miniature audience's question. Why do you run? Because I can.
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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