just that my desire to run had decreased. At the same time that I’d lost something, something new had
also taken root deep within me as a runner. And most likely this process of one thing exiting while another
comes in had produced this unfamiliar runner’s blues.
And what about this new thing within me? I can’t find the exact words to describe it, but it might be
something close to resignation. To exaggerate a bit, it was as if by completing the over-sixty-mile race
I’d stepped into a different place. After my fatigue disappeared somewhere after the forty-seventh
mile, my mind went into a blank state you might even call philosophical or religious. Something
urged me to become more introspective, and this newfound introspection transformed my attitude
toward the act of running. Maybe I no longer have the simple, positive stance I used to have, of
wanting to run no matter what.
I don’t know, maybe I’m making too much of it. Perhaps I’d just run too much and gotten tired.
Plus I was in my late forties and was coming up against some physical barriers unavoidable for a
person my age. Perhaps I was just coming to terms with the fact that I’d passed my physical peak. Or
maybe I was going through a depression brought on by a sort of general male equivalent of
menopause. Perhaps all these various factors had combined into a mysterious cocktail inside me. As
the person involved in this, it’s hard for me to analyze it objectively. Whatever it was, runner’s blues
was my name for it.
Mind you, completing the ultramarathon did make me extremely happy and gave me a certain
amount of confidence. Even now I’m glad I ran the race. Still, I had to deal with these aftereffects
somehow. For a long time after this I was in this slump—not to I imply that I had such a tremendous
record to begin with, but still. Each time I ran a full marathon, my time went steadily down. Practice
and racing became nothing more than formalities I went through, and they didn’t move me the way
they used to. The amount of adrenaline I secreted on the day of a race, too, was ratcheted back a notch.
Because of this I eventually turned my focus from full marathons to triathlons and grew more
enthusiastic about playing squash at the gym. My lifestyle gradually changed, and I no longer
considered running the point of life. In other words, a mental gap began to develop between me and
running. Just like when you lose the initial crazy feeling you have when you fall in love.
Now I feel like I’m finally getting away from the runner’s-blues fog that’s surrounded me for so long.
Not that I’ve completely rid myself of it, but I can sense something beginning to stir. In the morning
as I lace up my running shoes, I can catch a faint sign of something in the air, and within me. I want to
take good care of this sprout that’s sprung up. Just as, when I don’t want to go in the wrong direction
—or miss hearing a sound, miss seeing the scenery—I’m going to focus on what’s going on with my
body.
For the first time in a long while, I feel content running every day in preparation for the next
marathon. I’ve opened a new notebook, unscrewed the cap on a new bottle of ink, and am writing
something new. Why I feel so generous about running now, I can’t really explain systematically.
Maybe coming back to Cambridge and the banks of the Charles River has revived old feelings.
Perhaps the warm feelings I have for this place have stirred up memories of those days when running