Indoor track

I always feel a little ashamed to run on the indoor track. Not always. There are some days when running indoors is clearly the only sane option. It’s pouring down rain, or there are several inches of uncleared snow, or it’s ten below and the sidewalks are covered with ice. On all other days, my macho-meter tells me, running inside is a sign of weakness.

The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.

The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?

For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.

I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.

Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.

If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?

Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.