I've been running.
This doesn't mean I was just running now and then sat down to write this blog. I mean i've been running, on a treadmill on the third-floor of the Equinox down the street from my apartment. I've been running for the past four months. Not continuously, mind you. But about three days or so a week. I'm up to four miles each run, at a pace of eight minutes a mile.
As an addendum to the aforementioned information (just because I'm writing in an online publishing system doesn't mean I can't make addendums .. Yes, rewriting the above paragraph would've been an easier tactic than writing this sentence as an addendum, but I prefer the parchment and quill method of writing .. anyway, where was I? Oh yes ...) I hate running. I've always hated it. This includes the stint I spent on the cross-country team in the 8th grade at Meadowbrook Middle School, on the outskirts of Poway, California. I had joined the team partly because i was tall and had a long stride, which gave me the mistaken belief I'd be a good runner, but mostly because joining the cross-country team didn't require "try-outs" like the basketball team, which my burgeoning self-confidence wasn't quite yet prepared to handle. All you had to do was show-up for the first cross-country practice, and you were on the team. There was a reason for this, which I learned quickly enough: running sucks. Or, to be more flattering, running, as a sport, isn't quite as entertaining as baseball or football or even marbles. Running consists of putting one leg in front of the other at the fastest pace possible for the longest period possible. Which is why only seven other 8th-graders came out for the team.
After three months of running through the rattlesnake-strewn canyons of Poway, I was sent to the North County "All-Stars" cross-country race. Before you go congratulating me, let me reveal that every runner on my team was sent. I was an all-star simply because I managed to stay on the team for three months.
At around mile three of this "All-Star" race, with me positioned in the back of the pack (which had become the norm), the "course monitors" (the referees of cross-country running) discovered every runner ahead of me had taken the wrong turn at a fork on the course. The course monitors realized the mistake at the moment I reached the fork, allowing me to take the right turn, and hence putting me briefly in the lead. There was only a mile left in the race.
I still finished in 8th place.
Now, back to it: I hate running. Which is exactly why I've been doing it so diligently. I want to do something I hate. I want to test my sense of discipline. I've grown bored with only doing things I like. It's made me soft and spoiled and unchallenged and unchanged. As I grew older, I zeroed in on the things I liked, and only started to do those things. I created a bubble of pleasure, and my goal was to maximize this pleasure, and avoid all uncomfortable situations. I didn't know where I stood or what I was even capable of. The more I only did things I liked, the less I was able to handle those things I hated. If I got into a staring contest with my own hatred, how long could I go without blinking? Did I have any discipline left? How long could I handle hating something?
The answer is 32 minutes. That's as far as I go now before the hate overwhelms me. The good news? When I started four months ago, I could only handle hatred for 15 minutes. I've doubled my hatred capacity in only four months. By June, I hope to be able to handle my hatred for 10 kilometers worth, running with others who have mastered their hate (mind you, nobody actually likes running. They just like the sense of power you get putting hate in its proper place). The more I've done the things I hated, the less I needed the things I liked. Balance has been restored. If you can't face down your hate, you can't appreciate what you like. Or, as that drunk guy from work said a few weeks ago in his bad impression of Confucius, which seemed smart at the time but now I'm not so sure: You must master your hate, or it will master you.