Running as a Philosophical Quest

© 2010 Ugur Akinci

On the one hand I don't want to make a big deal out of it.

But on the other hand, I can't help thinking: isn't running a very philosophical act given the fact that the word "philosophy" translates from Greek as "love of knowledge"?

When I run I'm curious whether I'll "survive" the run (as I'm determined to do) rather than die of a heart attack (as -- god bless her -- my mom is afraid I'll end up doing one of these days). It's a tiny little experiment in life and death, really, only it of course never feels that dramatic.

Every exhalation is a bet that it'll be followed by inhalation. David Hume has thought us not to bet too hard on whether the sun will rise from the East, even though we are (almost) 100% certain that it will do so. But there's no way to actually prove it by sheer induction.

Same with running. I'm (almost) 100% certain of many things when I'm chugging up and down the hills of my neighborhood. Almost certain. But always never quite.

I'm curious to find out whether the assumed limitations of my age, weight, height, bone structure, muscle category, thought patterns, gender, eating habits, social class, etc. are real or largely a figment of my imagination. Every time I run I'm betting against sociology, psychology, biology, and god knows how many other -logies.

So in that sense running is my personal path, one of my paths, of discovery to find out more about all the things that are packaged as me. In that sense, this is a quest for knowledge.

As in similar quests, I have to learn to pace myself, literally. I have to control my ambition to run one 7-minute-mile after another (as if I could do it!) and yield to the more sobering reality that, if I'm lucky and careful, I can perhaps run 12-minute-miles into my seventies. The chronometer and the sharp pain in my lungs and hamstrings are my best teachers.

And what about becoming aware of all the sounds, textures, aromas and fragrances (from fresh paint to backyard barbecues) that I never knew existed at that particular spot, at that particular uphill ramp, around the corner of that house?

When I drive in my car, I'm aware of NONE of that data. All I'm aware of in my car are my thoughts, the newscast on NPR, and the whir of the AC. When I'm driving down the highway at 65 mph I'm not really in touch with the world in a primordial or existential sense.

And then I strap on my New Balances and hit the pavement and the world, in a Niagara of sensations, starts to flood in. And something within me welcomes that gift almost as "love". It's a feeling close to going back home again, going back home to my and everybody else's childhood I suppose...

"Love of knowledge" had never been this real, this immediate, this inspiring . And I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "inspire" itself comes from Latin "to breathe." (And credit for that goes to my son who's getting ready to run a half-marathon in October. Young man, run smooth, run light, and know thyself.)