One of the reasons I love running is that through running, you can discover many things about yourself, others, and the relationships between them. However, despite knowing this to be true, my biggest revelation about my relationship with running has come not exactly from running, but instead from taking a step back from it.
The way running is viewed is often pain-centric; the faster the pace, the higher the pain level, and the longer the run, the longer the pain needs to be endured. This way of thinking may be inaccurate and lead to an unhealthy relationship with running. Nonetheless, it is the most common way that running is thought about. Within this frame of thinking, a runner's worth is directly tied to how fast and how far they can run; the more pain they can endure, the more worthy of praise they are. In fact, many runners run primarily to signal to others that they are stronger and more resilient than others, and every runner I know likes it on some level when other people are impressed by them. However, does praise from others make you a better runner? Can it make you enjoy running more? Will it make you more fulfilled in life?
This story starts in the dark months of the freezing Northeast of the US, an unlikely place for a story about running. Living in the snowy Adirondack Mountains of Northern New York makes it difficult to run year-round, and like many endurance athletes before me, I turn to cross-country (XC) skiing in winter. When done right, XC skiing can provide an experience similar to running and is a great way to build an aerobic base while waiting for warmer weather. In the seasons prior, I had skied a lot, but there was one benchmark that I had my eyes on: skiing 1,000 miles in one season. This is a benchmark that only the most dedicated skiers achieve, and I knew it would push me to log more hours of skiing than ever before while providing a solid foundation for my summer goal of running my first 100-miler.
The season started strong. I logged a few miles in November, then I skied more than I planned in December, leaving me with over 300 miles at the start of January. My motivation started high, but all the hours of skiing by headlamp in the cold were starting to erode my excitement level. On some of the tougher days, when I wanted to stay in and skip skiing, I found motivation through wanting to prove to others that I was tough. During this time, I was performing under a virtual spotlight, constantly thinking about my next Strava post: how many people would see it, and the number of kudos it might get. My motivation for this goal was largely driven by the pressure I placed on myself out of a deep desire for praise and respect from others.
All the hours of skiing gave me lots of time to reflect on what my motivations were, because in practice, I was making myself train even when I would rather rest. The effect of this was that I started to grow a distaste for an activity that I normally enjoy. All of this came to a head in mid-January, right around the shortest days of the year. On an especially unwelcoming day, with the wind penetrating through my layers and my headlamp beam illuminating the snowflakes falling in front of my face, I finally had the inevitable breakdown coming my way. Mid-ski, the momentum just stopped. I thought to myself, What am I doing right now? This is supposed to be something that I enjoy, but I have been nothing but miserable for weeks. Is this made-up goal worth all of the negative energy that it is bringing out in me? In that quiet, freezing moment, I turned my skis around and headed back to the car early, cutting the trail short. I told myself that maybe I just needed a shorter day, then I would see how my energy level felt the next day, but subconsciously, I knew that, despite being ahead on my mile count, I was going to give up.
In the days that followed, I gave some thought to heading out skiing, but ultimately decided to stay in. During this time, once it set in that I was going to officially give up my goal, I did feel mournful for letting go of it. When I had built my identity on being a person who was able to achieve such a goal, deciding that I wasn't going to complete it meant that I had to change how I viewed myself, too. However, after the initial heartbreak, the feeling that came next was one of relief. I felt as if there was a weight lifted off of me, and I could breathe easily. Unknowingly, I had placed so much pressure on myself that I was just unhappy. This realization made me think about why I placed such high expectations on myself. While it is a complicated question, the major distorting mirror in my relationship with sport was clear: Strava.
Strava is a platform that ideally allows athletes to make connections with others in an increasingly disconnected age. I loved Strava for this purpose, and with over 1,000 activities, it is clear that I have found benefits from it for years. In addition to enjoying the social aspect, I enjoyed Strava because it provided an extra source of motivation. Through my following, I felt an extra source of accountability. I always wanted to send a signal that I deserved respect from my followers. Although unbeknownst to me, this extra source of motivation that I was tapping into was slowly eroding my relationship to the activities that I enjoyed. At some point during any activity, I thought about how the activity would make me look once it was uploaded. For example, during easy training runs, I constantly ran faster than I wanted because I did not want to have a public activity that made me look slow. The algorithm was dictating my pace. After my breaking point, I decided that it was time to give Strava a break, and I did the unthinkable: deleting the app and unlinked my devices.
In the next few weeks, I was expecting to feel directionless in my training, but really, I just felt free. I immediately enjoyed the lack of pressure that came with training offline. I listened to my body and mind more and quickly noticed that I was enjoying activities more. With this newfound freedom, I started rethinking what training goals I really wanted to focus on in the short term. I noticed that I was feeling inclined to log fewer hours of training without the responsibility of Strava, and I decided to follow this urge. I made the call to take the rest of the year off from structured training and to push my 100-miler ambition back a year.
Many people assumed that I was injured because of how sudden the drop in posting was, so I developed the need for an explanation. After trying a few explanations, I settled on telling people that I was taking a “gap year” from training. This would normally be followed by a chuckle and a concerned look. However, the “gap year” framing accurately summarized my carefree approach to the situation.
As the winter snow melted into spring trails, I spent fewer hours training than in years past, but every activity was focused on enjoyment. Instead of doing intervals and hill repeats, I would go on an easy trail run to a viewpoint, and instead of long solo runs, I would ride bikes with friends. As the months went on, my relationship with running changed completely. No longer am I thinking about how this activity will look when it comes across others’ feeds, but instead, I am aware of the actual experiences of a run. Likewise, what influenced my perception of how well an activity went shifted from metric-based judging to being more about how I felt during and after the run. Ultimately, I became able to stay in the moment for longer while running, making it more enjoyable.
On my best runs, I reach a heightened flow or trance state where the time and miles fade away, and the only thing that I am aware of is the repetitive act of running. To reach this state, I need to be in a clear headspace. When I am thinking about how others are going to view my data, it is like trying to sleep when someone is watching. You can't force a natural state when you feel an audience. The imaginary eyes of my followers used to run right alongside me on the trail, robbing me of solitude. But when I give myself space from the perceptions of others, the audience disappears, and I can fall into an enjoyable mindset much more easily. This has led me to be much more fulfilled in running, and I more often feel fulfilled after running. The main result of this gap year is that I have changed my relationship with running from enduring something that I did to get praise from others, to something that I do out of love for the activity.
Now, over a year after I started my “gap year,” I still haven't re-downloaded Strava, and I'm not planning on doing so soon, but I have restarted training regularly, and my motivation is coming from a different place—a more sustainable one. I’m now setting ambitious goals because I want to experience these things and prove to myself that I can overcome tough challenges, rather than wanting to show others I can. Likewise, I am more attuned to how I feel physically and emotionally during a run, and this has led me to be more aware of the meaningful aspects of running, whatever they may be. Ultimately, this has caused me to want to write more about running and help other runners share their experiences. In the end, this gap year has changed how I view myself and my relationship with running, and I will always be grateful for the experience of reaching a breaking point. Do I recommend quitting your training plan and Strava cold turkey? No, not necessarily at least, but I do recommend reflecting on what motivates you to run and how you can practice running in order to fulfill these things.
