I Like Running (Away)
The geographical cure won't fix Christmas. Plus, festive listens and reads to get you through the holidays.
In the final stretch of my run in Prospect Park several years ago, a regular I’d often see on the same route started jogging beside me. “Com’on you can go faster than that, can’t you?” The man, who looked to be at least 60, asked me. Annoyed, I ignored him and maintained my steady pace. But I never forgot the comment, or that man. I no longer run, but I walk the same route in Prospect Park. I’ve seen that same man several times, with his signature barefoot toe running shoes, running the same route. In the rain, the dark, the cold, he’s always out there running.
I judge him for being so addicted to running, because I see some of myself in his addiction. There is a high—better than anything I’ve experienced on drugs, or even sex—that I get from running. There are only a few places I find it: when the plane starts accelerating in the moments before take-off; when riding my road bike on flat, smooth pavement; and wh…