Lessons in Distance Running
42 kilometers later
"Don't rush – rushing is violence."
I first heard this in one of Ea Torrado's Daloy Movement sessions as she slowly ushered us back into awareness from the raw, uninhibited expressions of our animalistic bodies.
At the starting line of the race, amidst the hundreds of runners all high on adrenaline, the upbeat music just as drunk on it, I closed my eyes and stilled myself. I took deep breaths: four counts in, four counts held at the top, four counts out, four counts held at the bottom. I repeated this again and again until the air passing through me smoothened out like silk. In the midst of my method, that very phrase came to me like a divine whisper: Don't rush – rushing is violence.
I spoke the words to myself in the spirit of a lullaby. But the words felt more like a needle piercing through my skin, ejecting this viscous liquid that coursed through the fibers of my muscles like nutrients meant to protect me.
Ten seconds to gun start, my eyes would open with a newfound focus. My nerves would continue to shake me – this time not out of worry, but a readiness I did not know or believed I had as I'd hoped for weeks that an angel would magically carry me to the finish line.
Three. My resolve was clear: I would run this race at my pace, however steady or volatile it will be. Two. I would be my own witness as I bring myself to the end one leg after the other. One.
Gun start: I begin to run 42 kilometers, a full marathon, an unknown distance.
I started running five years ago because I hated it. I've been told this is an odd reason to start but for me, it was the perfect reason. Giving running a try was an attempt to investigate what it really was that I meant by "hate" every time I said it. I had one goal: to stop hating it, even if I didn't grow to love it.
For months I committed to running 3-4 times a week with no target distance in mind. I would draw loop after loop around our village, some days clear and precise and other days drunken, until I had enough information to form my first target: 5 kilometers.
I kept at it until I saw my target distances gradually increase as did my monthly spendings – proper running shoes, socks, wireless earphones, and my very first smartwatch. Suddenly my self-imposed hobby reached a seriousness I could not have foreseen when I started.
Five months in, on a quiet and unassuming Friday afternoon, I accidentally ran my first 21 kilometers. It happened in our neighborhood without the fanfare. There were no medals, no photos, freebies or congratulations at the finish line – there wasn’t even a finish line. It was just me and the distance in some beautiful state of flow, a peak I’d reached with running.
I ran two more half-marathons after that, one of which my first official race, and then I would watch my mileage quickly dwindle before my eyes.
This reflected what was happening in my life: at 21 kilometers, I was about to move abroad for a career I thought I'd wanted only to realize three years later, after many internal battles, that it was never for me.
The slope that followed that peak was steep. I tumbled all the way down until running became a three-kilometer affair twice a week. And then the running became mere walking, and it stayed like that for most of those three years.
In those years, I'd tried many times to revive it – for what I didn't know – but the attempts never materialized. I was tired. I was exhausted from it all.
In January 2023, I found myself back home in the Philippines with a pair of legs bearing 0 kilometers. As my long-held dreams and beliefs about myself dissolved, so did my mileage. I was convinced my running stint was over.
It was one day in May of 2023 that a classmate in badminton class joked that I should run a marathon. I laughed because truly, it was funny. I couldn’t fathom running another 21 kilometers after running 21 kilometers. I imagined that would be like running to my own grave voluntarily. How could I even think of running such a distance? More importantly, why?
"There's this marathon, TBR Dream Marathon, for first-timers. I have friends who did it. You should try it," he said. I laughed dismissively in reply.
A month later, I would receive an email from TBR Dream Marathon confirming my slot for the 2024 race. What happened in the span of that month remains a mystery to me.
On February 18th 2024, I ran my first full marathon, a race I'd signed up for on an impulse. I didn’t pause to consider what my intentions were then and what it would mean for my body to run 42 kilometers. I only remember feeling curious about this distance and what training for it would be like. These reasons were good enough for me. I didn’t let myself think about it further. I trained for it for about four months.
My run was revelatory. The 21-30 kilometer stretch unveiled the real reason I signed up for it: I was terrified of the distance. I was afraid that a distance like that could and would eat me alive, whatever that meant. And just as I had once wanted to stop hating running, I found myself wanting again. I didn’t want to be so terrified of 42 kilometers that it immobilized me and prevented me from even just trying.
For the months leading up to the marathon, I was under the impression that I'd signed up for it because I wanted to train for it. I wanted to train for something, anything, as I started to pick up the pieces of me again. It was easy to believe because it also wasn't untrue.
As I built my mileage, my endurance, and my ability to entertain myself past the 10 kilometer mark, I gathered a few important lessons along the way.
One: I learned that we all have an innate pace. It's the pace we can tolerate till the end, have conversations and daydreams in. We don't dictate this pace – our bodies do, and we have to listen intently for it.
Two: I learned to think in distance and not in time, a paradigm shift on its own. Running longer didn't necessarily mean running farther, and that tuned me into the felt experience of a kilometer and out of the compulsion of linear time.
Three: I learned to choose when I run. Running is not a matter of willpower alone; I used to think it was. So many things impact our runs – the weather, our clothing, the fluctuating states of our bodies and minds on any given day. I started asking myself questions whenever I felt like running: How do I feel today? How is that ache on my right thigh? What is the weather today? Does the sun feel prickly on my skin? Running requires you to be discerning. It helps you understand that you are but one part of the whole. Being more informed about your part allows you to better harmonize with the other parts.
Four: I also learned to think about my runs. I always walk for a few minutes after a run to cool and calm down. There is nothing quite like that walk when you witness yourself return to a slower pace of life, like an airplane moments after it lands. It's the perfect time to think – you’re back in your body moving at a speed leisurely enough for you to start finding language for the sensations felt during your flight. Take notes: all this information is wisdom for your next run. And for life.
Finally, I learned that the impulse to run this marathon was never about wanting to prove to myself that I could, nor was it about conquering my fear. The impulse was about learning to hold possibility – that I may be unable to finish the race, but also that I may be able to – and to bring myself to a state of acceptance of any outcome. It was about seeing my fear not as something to win or lose against and forever be at war with, but as something to meet and just be with. And for nearly 6 hours, one leg after another as I had promised myself, that is exactly what I did – be with my fear.
Some see running as a form of escape from the burdens of life; others see it as a valiant step towards a better future. But running is simply a mirror – to yourself, your predilections, and your life. It will not put you down or ask you to prove something; like any mirror, it will simply show.
Life is not a race, though it definitely feels like that sometimes. Life is a posture of openness. That is actually what we train for. When we train to hold this posture, we develop the sight to see what 42 kilometers – or any distance – is reflecting back to us.
And wherever you are in your life, whether you're at a glorious peak or starting from scratch in your grief and hope once more, remember: Don't rush – rushing is violence.