Momentum
Running home
Article and art by Alex Wollinka
A few weeks ago, I went on a run for the first time in over a year. My hair was too short to tie back completely, so I tried to catch most of the loose strands with a hairband and let the rest whip around my face. The feeling was surprisingly familiar– earbuds in, shoes rhythmically hitting against concrete and then gravel as I reached the trail, huffing out foggy breaths into the morning air. It felt like my body knew exactly how to pick up where I left off. As I’ve been getting back into the swing of running every day, I’ve thought more about its place in my life, from Landsharks in third grade to cross-country in highschool to my runs now. A lot has changed, and a lot hasn’t. For me, it's more than just exercise. Running connects me with memories and people and places, it grounds me in my environment and my body. When I run, I remember the ups and downs that I’ve run through before. When I run, it feels like coming home.
Having grown up in the Springs, I take the same trails that my team and I used to run during summer practices or races at Monument Valley Park. The park feels familiar in a comforting way. It’s not like a neighborhood or a school or a house; it’s not a place that I’ll outgrow or one that will outgrow me. Every spot of the landscape has memories woven into it. I remember laughing so hard I gave myself a side stitch, riding the momentum of gravity down the steepest hill, veering off from the rest of the team to chase a butterfly on occasion. One of my teammates would start every run with a stick, and then replace that stick every time he came across a bigger one, until he was barely able to run with what looked like a small tree dragging behind him. I remember my friends cheering my name as I crossed the bridge and broke into a sprint, then dumping paper cups of water on me as I lay in the grass, drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and grinning.
Nothing felt as exhilarating as crossing the finish line after giving everything I had and more. I felt like my body became pure energy, a shooting star burning up in the atmosphere. And then there was the relief of collapsing on the ground with other runners who had just done the same. I could feel my pulse pounding through my heavy limbs, my heart hammering against my breastbone, my lungs expanding and contracting under my aching ribs. Those were moments I had to work for. With the earth underneath me and the whole sky stretching above me, my mind and body were one.
Running has bad memories that come with it, too. I remember being passed on either side as my coach yelled at me to give more, and the feeling of helplessness when I physically couldn't. I remember throwing up after a race in a porta potty-- which was hot as an oven, sickeningly humid, and had a mix of overpowering stenches that somehow didn’t cancel each other out. I remember dreading practice on days where I was sick or exhausted, and the anxiety leading up to a big race. But even though it wasn’t always pleasant, I find that I'm nostalgic for both sides of running– good and bad. I learned I could push through when I didn’t want to and give a little more than I had to. I learned being in the hot sun all day makes shit smell even worse than it usually does. I learned to compete against myself, even when other people were ahead or behind.
I stopped going on runs in the autumn of 2020, when the combination of cold weather and general burnout made it too much of a hassle. I felt overwhelmed by tasks as simple as answering texts or folding laundry, and I didn’t have the energy to do much beyond the bare minimum. Since every class was on zoom and all my interactions were online, there wasn’t really a physical space where I belonged, nothing that made me feel real and solid, and running was the one thing that grounded me most. I had been so used to the movements and the sensations– the burn of my lungs and muscles, the swing of my shoulders, the movement of each leg pushing me forward. After I quit running, even just on occasion, it felt as though my body was a different thing entirely, a carbon copy of the one that used to be mine. It was like walking into a perfect replica of my house knowing, somehow, that it wasn’t the one I grew up in. There were times that I couldn’t tell if I took comfort in the feeling or if I wanted it to stop. Once the world thawed out again, I couldn't get myself back out on the trail. At first, in the spring, running was clearly off the table. I wasn't getting much sleep and being out in public was draining on its own, so just going for walks a few times a week felt like an achievement. In the summer, I went on walks or hikes most days, but I told myself it was too hot for running and I was too unmotivated to get up early. Then came fall, which merged into winter. I wanted to run, and I felt bad about being too lazy to try, but something made it feel too daunting. It wasn’t until I started running again that I realized what was holding me back.
My first post-pandemic run was probably one of the most freeing ones I'd ever been on. I’m not anywhere near as fast as I was in highschool, and I certainly can't run for as long. But nevertheless, my body kept the rhythms and memories. I looped around the trails at a casual pace for about half an hour, listening to songs that hit with the right mix of dopamine and adrenaline to make me feel invincible. The park never felt like a space where I did or didn’t belong; it just existed, and I could exist inside it. There’s no role to fill or step away from. When I’m running by the river, I’m not a student, a daughter, an employee, or even an athlete; I’m just there, passing by. And for a little while, when the water is rushing alongside me, I feel like the momentum alone is enough to exist for.
After the pandemic, I started to put more focus into reframing my mindset and taking my mental health seriously. Running is a big part of taking care of myself that I feel like I’m reclaiming more intentionally than I ever did before. Most days, if the weather is tolerable, I try to at least put my running shoes on and jog around the park at some point, even if only for twenty minutes. Sometimes I veer off for a second to chase a butterfly, or see a stick that looks like it's begging to be picked up in the middle of the trail. Sometimes I watch a group of much faster, more serious runners pass me by, and I remember my old running team and the devotion I put towards improving every day. Nostalgia rises up to the surface at random, almost taking me by surprise. I may not ever be as fast as I was, or run as long as I used to. I may never get the feeling of sweat-drenched lung-burning victory from running ever again. But as much as I miss it, I think it's okay if running isn’t exactly the way it used to be. I feel the momentum, the breath in my lungs, the cold air on my face and the soreness in my legs, and I know that those pieces of me are still there.