The Loneliness of a Middle Distance Runner

Last Saturday in these pages, Frank suggested that I run a 5K, ostensibly to meet women. Never one to back down from a challenge, I completed the Paramus Run 10K on the very next day.

OK, OK, it wasn't that spur-of-the-moment: I'd run the same race in 2004, '06, and '07 (missing '05 due to an ill-timed bout of insomnia); the Nike Run-Hit-Wonder 10K in 2004 and '05 (seeing acts such as Tommy Tutone and General Public perform on the race route); the 5K in Paramus in 2002 and '03; and the 3.5-mile Corporate Challenge each year since 1994 (including one surreal year as a replacement on my company's Corporate Challenge world championship team). Aside from these events, I probably only run an additional 3 or 4 times a year. I am consistently sporadic.

But Frank's words definitely caught my attention, as the exact same suggestion had recently come from another friend, who shall remain nameless. (His parents did not give him a name.) This friend had just completed a triathlon, with great preparation assistance from those fine folks at Team in Training. (Their acronym is the not-quite-accurate TNT, and you can probably guess why.) My family-man friend forwarded a photo of his training squad: Hey, look at all the pretty girls you could meet!

Sorry to get all Bartleby the Scrivener on you guys, but, I would prefer not to. And it's not just because I don't want to ask friends for more fundraising funds. (I already hit them up each year for the AIDS Walk--not a bad place to meet kind-hearted women, actually--and then there was my recent Obama-begging.) Nor is it because I shy away from doing anything where my real, hidden purpose is meeting girls (buying a dog, taking a pottery class, dressing stylishly...).

No, it's just because...I don't want to be a runner. I don't want to be an...anything. I find that people who focus on any one topic can become so absurdly boring to anyone who isn't also focused on that topic. They let that one interest define them as humans. You've met them, hobbyists of all stripes: The football fan. The religious zealot. The day trader (ok, you haven't met one of them recently). The gym rat. Ethics-based diet enthusiasts. Parents of young children. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as Yul Brynner once said.

And so it is in a race setting: Everyone seems to be talking about their last race, or their next race, or the weather at this race three years ago, and so on. Someone always mentions their meniscus. And everybody is wearing a running-themed T-shirt. (Indie rock must be the only special interest group in which wearing the shirt of the event you're attending is considered a serious faux pas.) Oh, the wide but limited range of shirts you'll see: The Such-and-Such Race to Save or Eliminate Something. The So-and-So Memorial Half-Something-or-Other. The St. Whoever Academy Track Team ("Go Fightin' Mongooses!"). In all honesty, the only woman who spoke to me on Sunday said, "I like your shirt," and only because I stood out by sporting an Obama/Biden logo. But let's just say that I'm not sure she was old enough to vote.

To be overly earnest for a moment, it's one of the things I've enjoyed most when writing non-fiction: You can become an expert on a subject for a brief window of time—and then drop it if you like. I'm a dabbler by nature. I know way too much about some things (music, comedy, baseball, where to get fresh mozzarella in Hoboken). I know enough about a number of other subjects to do pretty well in trivia contests. And on many very important matters, I'm woefully ignorant, having only read the Yahoo News headline.

But I know what you really want to hear: How did I do in the race? I'll keep you waiting no longer. I ran the 6.2 miles in 56 minutes, 35 seconds. I was pleased; it was 35 seconds faster than last year. Though to keep things in perspective, I did finish just behind a dog.

Hmm...I wonder if his owner was really just hedging his bets in trying to meet a girl.