Several years ago, I posted a message on an Internet running newsgroup in which I suggested that what all runners are looking for, at the deepest level, is joy. And, to my not terribly great surprise, several people attacked that statement, as if the notion of running for joy was an excuse for laziness, and for shirking the good, honest, hard work that brings success.
The inference to be drawn, I suppose, is that progress can only be achieved by bitterly hard seriousness and pain. But I can’t help but disagree. I persist in believing that the motive behind all human striving is the longing to experience greater happiness, and to avoid suffering. Moreover, of the elite runners that I met when I worked at Runner’s World, nearly all were notably upbeat and cheerful. It was the grim second-level runners who often seemed compelled to boost their egos by bragging about how hard they trained, etc.
If the people who responded to my note were, in fact, working hard to achieve difficult goals, I doubt that it was for the pale, gray satisfaction of standing at the results board after running a PR and mechanically registering a number – 3:25, 2:57, 2:18 – in the cells of their brains while feeling nothing more uplifting than a grim, toad-like contentment.
Runners want to feel something. Frank Shorter believed that runners get more out of their training when they run in places where they feel happy. Good feelings boost our energy. In current parlance, they’re an “ergogenic aid.”
Something in us wants more: more health, love, strength wisdom, and joy. Success means more. But “more” must mean more joy, or else why would we even bother running?
Joy isn’t easy, as the folks who responded to my Internet message seemed to imply. It’s a tremendous challenge. Stretching our boundaries is never comfortable. Joy is a tough battle.
During a 10-mile run the other day, I was asking God to help me avoid ego-games. I was praying loudly inside, letting off steam, because I wanted to persuade God of my sincerity, give Him the full blast of my true feelings, so that I could open my hear to Him.
In the last chapter, I told how I prayed in a formal way at the start of a 10-mile run and received no answer, and how I opened up and really let God know how I felt. After baring my heart for several miles, I simmered down and the answer came, simply and plainly, free of any sense that God was unhappy with me for expressing my feelings in colorful language.
I was remembering that run, and trying to summon the same spirit of wide-open frankness. And I’d gotten no farther than “Godda…” when bam-splat! – “Him the Almighty power hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky” – I sprawled in a full-length faceplant on the rocky ground, feeling that it wasn’t a very dignified thing for an old gentleman of 62 to be doing.
I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and jogged on, asking God what I had done wrong. After all, I’d only wanted to share my feelings with Him sincerely. But I realized that on that long-ago run, I had shared my difficult feelings in a spirit of respectful sincerity, with a humble plea for help – whereas this time, I had merely been spraying about my feelings in frustration. The faceplant reminded me that God is my friend, and that He deserves to be treated accordingly.
I circled the lovely community garden, while I continued to mull over my problems, and as I exited the garden my frustrations took hold once again, and with deep emotion I said, “Godda…” SPLAT!!
Picking myself up and tottering on, now with two bloody knees and elbows instead of one, I said, “I feel like crying, Lord. I won’t, of course, but I reckon I’ll have to be more careful how I talk with You.”
I said, “I certainly got Your attention, and I’m touched that You would care enough to make me take a nosedive.” I was laughing inwardly. I said, “That’s so sweet! And I want You to know that You can trip me anytime!”
It was absurd to think that God would need my permission to slip a round pebble in my path. But my mood had changed, and I felt that I had come back around to a kind of cheerful “spiritual running” that’s real. I had been running in a spirit of forward-rushing impatience and frustration, running in my head, and now I was able to relax and let my heart find its natural way. It was a radically different mood. I felt that I was once again riding in the natural chamber of the heart, where God can come, and we can meet as friends.
I circled the lake and entered the gate to the Stanford hills. Climbing a dirt trail, I thought how wonderful it was to be feeling at peace in my heart again.
I was thinking about the many books on self-improvement and spirituality that avoid mentioning God. They try to turn the spiritual path into an inner technology, as if it were all about investing X amount of mechanical practice to get Y results. They go on and on about breathing, affirmations, attitude, postural alignment, energy, self-analysis, meditation, chakras, etc. And I was reflecting on how different the spiritual path actually is, once you become aware that techniques can only take you so far, and that every true spiritual experience comes as God’s response to the love and longing of the heart.
He is, in fact, in charge. And what will you do, if He gives you tendinitis, the flu, a sprained ankle, or months of difficult and confusing runs, instead of the “ever-increasing inner peace and focus” that so many new-age books promise? Spiritual techniques can be profoundly helpful, of course, but as one spiritual teacher put it, techniques can take you as far as God’s front vestibule, but love takes you into the Divine Presence.
At any rate, I’m watching my mouth when I run. In future, I may swear with God, but I doubt I’ll risk swearing at Him.
