My morning run has always been a four mile down and back. I decided on four miles when I started training for my first half marathon in Frederick, Maryland in May 2016. For some reason, four miles felt like a challenging floor to set; anything less and I was cheating myself that day. It also helped that, as I was getting into running, I was living in Baltimore and it was exactly two miles from my door to the entrance to Fort McHenry (and two miles back again). This seemed like a natural destination to run to, and the route was very simple: Out the side door of 1644 S. Hanover St., round the corner onto Hanover, down two blocks to Fort Ave., and follow it all the way through Locust Point to its end. Two miles down and two miles back. At the time, I was running with my Timex watch, and so I would set the timer and head out. 35 minutes was acceptable for a sluggish morning run, 32 my norm, and I doubt I ever cracked 28. It was the early stages of my running and I was still amazed that I was genuinely enjoying it. I wasn’t running for time.
My “first” run had been the day of the NFC Championship game, the Vikings versus somebody, and I remember coming down Fort, nearing the end of a six mile run, and hearing the game through an open bar door. It was an odd, balmy day in late January, and I had surprised myself by deciding that afternoon to run farther than I ever had before. I was probably past five miles at that point, feeling refreshed and cleansed of the last few years (can one day really do that?). I can’t pretend that there was any major realization at that moment, any decision to change my life in a significant way, but I did decide I was going to run again. Not every day, and not for hours at a time, but I made a decision in the shadow of that bar that I was going to do something athletic. Something for myself. I signed up for the Frederick Half in May and the Baltimore Full Marathon the following October a few weeks later. I was determined if nothing else.
The daily route down Fort became the pulse of my runs. On a good day, with some rest, coffee or just chilly weather, I would glide effortlessly over the pavement, ignore the creepy shadows in the neighborhood’s doorways, say good morning to jogging mothers and come home clear-headed and ready for the day. Those runs come back to me through cool air and industrial scenes; they bring me back to the rail yards you run over as Fort Ave nears its end. Other mornings, with enough humidity (oh, how I hate humidity!), or sleep cobwebs, or just plain reluctance, my feet would drag. I would flinch at each doorway that flickered with movement, hear my soles scrape the ground as I lifted each leaden foot, and I would come home absolutely defeated.
Defeated and with a clear head. No matter how miserable I felt as I ran, I always smiled as I pulled to a stop outside my back door, caught my breath and calculated my pace from my Timex. After I had recovered, I went back inside, grabbed a glass of water and went upstairs to my room to record my accomplishment on the big white calendar pages I had plastered all over my wall. 4 miles, 8:05 pace. 4 miles, 7:55 pace. 4 miles, 8:35 pace. The days ticked away one by one, and I slowly started to change from someone who ran to a runner. Up, dress, key in pocket (or tucked into shoe laces in the early days), start Timex, reach gate, turn around, back home. Repeat. Repeat and repeat and repeat. Before long I had run eight miles over the weekend, then ten, then I had finished my first half, then a full marathon. All supported by that little down and back stretch of Fort Avenue, in Baltimore, helping me stick to the promises I had made to myself.
Here is my run as I remember it today: My house was on the far end of a block, so the run started with my block, and then one more until you hit Fort Avenue. Or, as I always thought of it, until you hit the bus stop outside of Claddagh’s, or McPoyle’s, or whatever that Irish pub was called that overlooked the bus stop. After making a right on Fort, you tackled the only hill of the route. Calling it a hill is a stretch, since you are so close to the water, but this was typically my slowest mile. The road gradually curled to the right, so that you went from running directly towards the Baltimore harbor to running parallel to it. This stretch was primarily residential, save for the Chinese restaurant where I saw (and ran alongside) my first Baltimore rat, and the church, a few blocks beyond, where people always headed carrying yoga mats. It might not have been a church. This stretch of the run inevitably had some houses whose doorways almost always shimmered in the morning darkness, creating pretty scary shadows that made me run a bit faster.
After the curved section, there were more businesses: Baba’s Mediterranean, a McDonald’s, the Shopper’s Food Warehouse and associated shopping center, a small bridge overlooking Key Highway, the McHenry Row shopping center, and then the stretch of quiet, residential Locust Point that continued all the way until you got to Fort McHenry (maybe half a mile). This part of the run is generally where I saw other runners, and it was the most rewarding section by far. Crossing an industrial train yard, the view is nothing special, but it is undeniably beautiful: the hard, unassuming air of the place leaves your thoughts free to wander. It is where you find yourself all of a sudden having to stop, catch your breath and reflect on the city and how you got there.
After the train yard, you descend into the stretch of road leading up to the fort’s gates, where 18-wheelers stop to take naps, and you pray to God that you don’t get black-bagged and tossed into one of their cabs. Then it’s back home.
Since that time, a lot has changed in my relationship with running. I have run three marathons, two of which were official and one of which wasn’t, two ultramarathons, and I frequently run for longer than ten miles because I genuinely enjoy it, feel I need it, and choose to plan my weekends around it.
I also no longer live in Baltimore. Since my time on S. Hanover Street, in Federal Hill, I have lived at my parents’ house in Northern Baltimore, in Union Square in Manhattan, and currently in Brooklyn Heights. Three different homes and three different four mile loops, pounded into my brain through repetition, documentation on the calendar, and more repetition.
In Homeland, the neighborhood where I grew up, there is a perfect, four mile square loop around the Friends, Gilman and Loyola University campuses. I used to know it was a good run if the residential stretch of Roland Avenue went quickly and I had energy climbing the hill by Roland Park Elementary (it truly is a neighborhood of schools). If I thought about the length of that quarter to half mile, then my head just wasn’t in it. Every once in awhile, to escape the monotony, I would run two miles straight down Charles Street until I reached the edges of the Johns Hopkins campus and the intersection with University Parkway, then turn around, but the downhill-then-uphill topography of that route kept it from becoming habit.
When I moved to New York, my route cut through the East Village, down Third Avenue to 6th Street, then on 6th all the way to the East River, where I would run for exactly one mile and turn around at the old amphitheater right past the Williamsburg Bridge around Grand Street. It was the first run where I was guaranteed to see at least one rat if I chose to look for it, and for some strange reason I only looked when I was feeling fresh and the city was rearing its majestic head in front of me, and I held my gaze off the street when I felt weak and was terrified of Manhattan’s shifty darkness. I no longer had train tracks to cut my run in half; now, I was looking out at Brooklyn under the Williamsburg Bridge. It should have felt like an upgrade, but I hated cutting through the dirty streets of the East Village and missed something about Baltimore and the simplicity of my old neighborhood. Left on Hanover, right on Fort, turn around. I made it work all the same.
Now, in Brooklyn, I have another perfect four mile loop through the sleepy streets of my beautiful neighborhood. The first half, through the heart of Brooklyn Heights for two miles down Henry Street, is always peaceful, and anyone I run by is too focused on their early morning task to give me much notice. At the end of Henry Street, by a nondescript public school that I am pretty sure is not functional, I turn and retrace my steps until Atlantic Avenue, where I turn left and head towards the East River and into Brooklyn Bridge Park. The first time I ran this, while still living in Manhattan, my breath slowed me down somewhere between piers five and four in the park, by a rocky embankment with an unobscured view of the glistening towers of Lower Manhattan. Staring up at them, with the pinkish hues of sunrise reflecting back at me, I again felt a sense of amazement at the city and my place in it. I often wonder whether I’ve been lucky to find such serene runs, but it seems the sport just rewards those who stick with it.
I firmly believe, after these last three years, that running will always be a passion of mine. I have now tried to tell myself that I would move on to something else during the past two winters, as I thought about goals for the year, and each time I’ve barely lasted a week before ripping off a long run. I tried consistently doing pushups and other body weight exercises, and have dabbled with cycling, but it seems that running is what continues to enthrall me. On a long run, it is the sense of adventure, and challenge, and in-your-face-I-ran-twenty-miles-for-no-reason-ness that keeps me coming back for more. I would stop and switch to something else if I felt there were a true substitute, but until then I crave the dopamine.
I am also convinced, in regards to my short runs in particular, that running is my connection to the places I live. It is not so much a way to explore (although I love doing that as well) as it is a tangible way to feel my neighborhood, to be a part of it. I do not attend community meetings, nor do I really speak to my neighbors or even have friends in my neighborhood. But in Brooklyn Heights I see the Mazzola Bakery receive their flour delivery each morning; I see two women meet outside a giant brownstone for a training run. I run past construction workers trudging to their work sites or buying pastries from a sidewalk vendor, I feel the day’s weather in my bones and pores and I get scared shitless of the Halloween decorations. Most of all in Brooklyn I inhale the neighborhood’s sense of calm and security and channel it towards whatever is on my mind.
I’m not sure whether my runs are out of the ordinary, or whether everyone has a repetitive loop that they do every morning. In my head, I imagine most runners are able to just wander their surroundings as they see fit, until they’re either tired or bored, but that may be a projection of what I want for myself more than anything else. In reality, it all comes down to discipline for me. I don’t run less than four miles because my loop is four miles, and I have chosen that distance because I don’t trust my own self regulation. If I could decide my course each morning, maybe I would turn off at three and a half, or at three, and then next thing you know I’m no longer running in the mornings and I’m back to square one.
Establishing this type of discipline around distance is important. It’s why I have an easier time pushing myself when I’ve chosen a course ahead of time, measuring the exact distance I need to run, than when I run without a plan. In the first scenario, I spend the run ticking off accomplishments: I’ve crossed that bridge, I’ve passed that pizzeria, I’ve turned around. In the later, I force myself to make a whole lot of small decisions: I could turn here and cut off a mile, or I could continue on to stretch the run a bit extra. What do you think, given the choice, my brain tells me I should do? Cut it short! A decision which, without a doubt, hurts twice as much once you are back home and alone with your thoughts than your legs would have from the extra mile.
This may feel a bit disjointed, but I believe that all of these are connected: discipline, route, place. The morning run. Because the morning run is where I feel that I separate myself from others. Or, more importantly, where I have made gigantic strides towards self-improvement over the last three years. How else do you describe the transition from that balmy, Sunday afternoon in January 2016 to me running 26 miles for the sake of it this past New Year’s Eve (2018)? I told myself I wanted to run a marathon, without specific training (but a strong base, of course), and I did it. So what is discipline?
Here is how I would define it:
Discipline is the ability to remove self doubt from your list of acceptable options
When I no longer allow myself to question my motivations, or my abilities, or the potential outcomes, then there is only one thing left: getting it done. If I leave the house thinking, I will be back in four hours, then I’m going to be back in four hours. If I say I’m running to the lighthouse, then I’m running to the lighthouse. If I’m resolute in my decision, then I will accomplish what I set out to do. If I’m not, then I will go into whatever I’m doing with an out. Running to the lighthouse becomes hoping I can get there without my knee flaring up. With that excuse pre-loaded in my mind, I will make it halfway and find that my knee flares up right when I’m ready to call it quits. And I will. My mind was made up before I left.
This exact same thing happened on a run this past winter in Baltimore (and a few, less memorable times since then). It was drizzling, and I left my parents’ house thinking, “if it’s really raining outside I’ll cut it short. I won’t run four miles.” Well guess what? I decided the rain was too much. It was just too annoying! The breeze was a bit much. My shorts were sticking to the backs of my thighs. Some minor drizzle and I broke down! No admiration of the streets of Baltimore I knew so well. No grinding through the last mile home. Just self pity and whining. The same person who a few days later (and inspired very much by that day’s events) ran 26 miles in the cold, in the pouring rain, and while sick, threw in the towel over a four mile run. That is the power of your mind if you give it a convenient excuse.
Fast forward to this past April, when I finished my first 50 mile ultra. The race was in Virginia, outside of DC along the Potomac River, and although I loved many parts of it, the last five miles or so were pure pain. I alternated between running, walking and shuffling my way towards the finish line. I played hard rock on my phone’s speaker, talked furiously to myself (“you are such a pussy, stop walking!”) and even had my girlfriend Anne on speakerphone in the final mile. I didn’t exactly finish how I would have liked, but at no point – and I am being completely honest here – did I even contemplate not finishing. I was as sure of myself crossing that finish line with five miles to go as I was that morning at 5:00am, as I was cresting my final hill feeling like a champion around mile 35, and even the night before as I was laying out my clothes. I knew I would end that day a 50 mile finisher because when I signed up for the race that’s what I was: a 50 mile finisher. There wasn’t any other option. I had set my mind’s parameters for that day and every scenario ended with me running, walking or crawling across that finish line.
David Goggins first got me started on this idea: Your mind is not your friend. It’s a powerful tool, yes, but too often its power is put towards finding ways out, not towards finding ways forward. It is both the originator of goals, dreams and desires, and the destroyer of those very things. So it needs to be controlled, and the way to do that is by setting parameters.
Setting parameters sounds like an intense practice, but its not. We do this all the time. We get dressed every morning because that is the option we give ourselves. If we wake up on Saturday and decide not to shower and change out of the clothes we slept in, it is because we have given ourselves an out. “I’m not seeing anyone today, I’m not going out in public, so I won’t shower. I won’t change.” We don’t do that during the week, because it’s not an option. We have, through our own determination or by society’s will, set parameters.
So what if we set parameters for other things? I will give you a personal example: What if I decided to no longer drink juice? I would just no longer consider buying it. Juice is sold in stores, but it’s not going to be part of my cart. You frame it as a statement. Not as something you don’t want to do, i.e. “I don’t want to buy juice,” but as something you don’t do. “I no longer buy juice.” That’s the decision and you have made it. Just like the decision I made to run on New Year’s Eve. Things came up – the rain, a cold – but I had already decided my outcome.
The cool thing about this strategy is you get better as you go along. Your mind sharpens. Here are the parameters I have set for myself:
I shower every single morning. I don’t watch TV in bed. I don’t purchase any beverages at the grocery store other than milk. I don’t get into the office after 9:00am. I don’t listen to music on runs (no longer a hard rule of mine). I make my bed every morning, wherever I am sleeping.
These are all relatively basic. You could also say that they take the fun out of things (what if I wake up one Saturday and want to stay in bed, unshowered, binge watching Netflix and drinking ice cold Cokes?), and that would be true. What it would overlook, however, is all of the positives I get from those parameters. I am always awake and ready for a productive morning. I fall asleep easily at night because my bed is the place where I do nothing but sleep. I don’t drink drinks with sugar. I have a good reputation at work and have a head start each day. I don’t rely on any crutches to get me through a run. I accomplish something small each morning before I’ve even left my bedroom.
Just from that list, I am reiterating to myself the benefits of a disciplined mind. Of restricting options to those with the best outcomes. Through the rules I set, I am able to be productive, stay healthy and active. I didn’t necessarily choose my parameters with those things in mind, but I set a framework to gradually move myself in that direction. That’s the key.
To some this will sound like a generic pipe dream. If it were that easy people would decide to do all sorts of things, and bad habits would disappear. And I get that. I am probably better than the average person at disciplined thinking, but even I have trouble being entirely resolute. But that’s the tragic truth about some of the best secrets in life: the actual secret is ten percent of the battle – the other ninety percent is on you.
In this case, guilt and self-trickery are your friend. If you don’t want to buy juice, write THESE ITEMS ONLY on your grocery list. Tell your friends you do not drink juice anymore. If you decide to run ten miles, write a big number ten on your hand, so you’ll see it if your conniving mind tries to cheat you. Wash that off in the shower after cutting a run short and I promise you’ll never do it again.
For me, nothing embodies this better than my four mile morning runs. I set my route so that the run is not a choice. It is not a source of creativity, of exploration, of the unknown. It is irrelevant. I know I am running my base run of four miles that morning and so I run my loop, knowing there are no shortcuts, no matter how I feel. That is how I trick my mind and it is why my morning run has been so central to my early running life.
I will end with an anecdote. My friend Eric and I have had a similar conversation every couple of Friday or Saturday nights that goes something like this:
Eric: What are you doing tonight? Let’s go out.
Emmett: I’m just going to lay low, I have to run fifteen miles tomorrow.
Eric: You have to?!?! Who says you have to run tomorrow morning?
A parameter is you telling yourself that you have to do something until it is no longer a choice. So yes, I do have to.