Pain was expected, but not indifference to the sport

Somewhere around the 22nd mile, I stopped wanting to run.

Pain, stress and a packed schedule… Somewhere around the 22nd mile, I stopped wanting to run.

Pain, stress and a packed schedule couldn’t cure me of my running addiction, but a marathon almost did.

I expected the pain before I began the race. After all, the first marathon runner, who completed the 26.2 miles in ancient Greece, promptly keeled over dead, as my boyfriend reminded me whenever he could.

But I’ve dealt with pain. I ran track in high school and did horrible, frequently running-related things to my body. Growing up as a Calvinist, I adopted the philosophy that struggling and suffering could make me a better person.

Even if I’ve grown to the point where I can question my childhood philosophy, I figured I could take whatever the marathon could give me.

Except indifference to the sport itself.

When my body began telling me to walk, or to give up and wait for the truck – for people who dropped out of the race – to come and pick me up, I didn’t consider quitting because of the pain shooting up my legs and neck.

I wanted to give up because I wasn’t sure if I really cared about running.

I finished the race. I didn’t want to ride home as a quitter after all the teasing I’d taken from friends who couldn’t understand why I would want to run for four hours.

But, when the thought of drinking the complimentary Yuengling offered to runners around the 23rd mile marker turned my stomach, I knew I was in trouble.

Concerned, beer-loving readers need not worry – I made up for my mid-race temperance later.

My appetite for running has yet to recover.

I’ve heard of people who, in bouts of youthful naivete, consumed a pound of chocolate or a gallon of soda in one sitting and have never been able to stomach the food or beverage since.

My parents survived on canned mackerel for a year while my dad was in grad school – fortunately, before my time – and my mom still can’t handle the smell of the conveniently packed fish.

With weekly, three-hour training runs, culminating in 22 miles of fun and 4.2 miles of hating myself, maybe I just overdosed on running.

Fortunately for my friends and my mom, none of them ever defined themselves by chocolate, soda or mackerel. While I’d like to think my sense of being isn’t completely rooted in my daily running ritual, it’s not far from the truth.

Running pleases my Calvinist soul.

It’s cheap and simple – give me proper shoes and a sports bra, and I can do it anywhere. It requires hard work and dedication. If I’m lucky, it’s inconvenient, difficult and painful. We Calvinists consider that a bonus.

It sets me apart and occasionally makes trouble, and I’m ashamed to admit that I kind of enjoy that. My religious sensibility tells me that something is worth doing only if it involves climbing a tricky, thorny path.

Maybe it comes from growing up in a brown church, with the increasing sense that I am probably not on the list of the 160,000 faithful souls that John Calvin’s God plans to redeem.

Realizing that I might not like running anymore makes me feel like a Catholic schoolgirl who’s realized she doesn’t really believe in God.

I’m pretty scared by the possibility of not liking something that provides the basis of who I am and what I do. I guess my case is reasonably mild, compared to other undesirable addictions on which I might have based my identity.

But as someone who’s completed several year-and-a-half streaks without missing a day of running, I’m intimidated by the gaping void that would replace my morning runs.

At this point, I’m still running every day, but I think I’m getting used to the idea that I might not be a horrible person if I stop. Maybe, as the aches wear off, I’ll get back to the peace and self-awareness that I used to find while running.

Or maybe I’ll find that I like sleeping in the extra hour.

J. Elizabeth Strohm realizes that John Calvin would probably not approve of her public exhibition of skin and sweatiness while running, so it’s a good thing she’s not really doing it for him. Share your wisdom at jstrohm@pittnews.com.