When I am alone on a long run in the rain in May, heading out through Norwich, up past Maple Hill and down past Bradley Hill; when the pavement ends, and I pass those sad cows at Goodrich Four Corners (not people, cows); when, after miles of trying to visualize my legs (not legs, life) like a train on the tracks, I catch sight of Baker Tower between a crease in the hills, away across the river: This is happiness, for me.
When I am running far and long and hard, I am happy. And when I make it back to the Green, from whatever direction I went out in, I am happy. And the next day, when I am tying my sneakers, and heading out again, I am happy.
Sure, it's just endorphins. Or some evolutionary wiring. Or masochism. Or being outside, something transcendental. But whatever the reason, physical exertion getting outside and pushing my body is the only thing shaping my days that I am absolutely certain is meaningful and good.
There are many other things that give my days "meaning" my friends, my work, my classes, my tagged photos on Facebook, my family but I can undermine all of these; I can doubt that they are meaningful, and I do. But not running. Running is simple and good for me and challenging and I'm sure of it, and that is why it makes me happy.
Up Route Five along the river, across the bridge in Thetford and back along River Road to Route 10: A 20 or 22 mile loop, the longest I've ever done in Hanover, though not the longest I've ever done. Last Fall I accidentally wore a shirt that chafed my nipples (yes, nipples) on that run, and had to come back down the whole of Route 10 from Etna shirtless, with two streams of blood pouring down my chest.
And you thought I looked crazy at Derby.
Now, let's be clear about something: I am not very good at running. I am not very fast, or very strong. I never have been a particularly good athlete and I can say with confidence that I never will be. If I can run long distances and enjoy it, I don't think it's because I'm good at running, but because I am good at being alone.
Being good at being alone is something I realize I've learned in my time at Dartmouth. Which seems strange, because here in the bubble (panopticon) we are surrounded at all hours of the day and night by our slamteam (friends; people and/or cows).
When you ask an alum what they miss most, it seems the most common answer is always, "Being with my friends all the time," or "Having my best friend right down the hall," or "my dogs," or something like that.
I can see what they mean. Luckily, my abandonment issues and deeply buried insecurities keep me safe from getting too close to anyone. PHEW!
But really, in college, with so much rushing at you all day and night, it's easy to get lost: Trying to impress the new people you are always meeting, or trying to keep up with whatever kind of life your friends are leading; wanting to be at every party, onboard with every adventure, learning everything there is to learn from everyone here.
My god-given talent for self-delusion keeps me believing that the increasing amount of time I spend alone is of my own choice, and not simply because nobody likes me. In a characteristically impudent turn of phrase, I like to think that I have spent the last couple of years "flirting with ascetic."
Just ask my friend Tica. At the start of every term, while driving back up to school from our hometown in Maine, we set goals for ourselves. Mine are eternally the same:
1) NEVER KISS ANYONE AGAIN. 2) NEVER GO OUT AGAIN. 3) STOP EATING FOOD.
Setting myself up for failure, you see, is the one thing I truly excel at.
In high school, when I was still running cross country, my highly-nuanced race strategy was this: "Go out fast, and then hold on baby, hold on." I would run the first mile of the race at a pace I knew I could not sustain, and then when it got painful, just kept telling myself to hold on, baby, hold on.
Fail. Insert: Transformation of immature anecdote to anaphoric, alliterative aphorisms. Sigh. Insert: You, the last person left on campus still reading this, thinking I am a d-bag.
When I am out running though, all my tricks and triangulations fall away. There is a hill and I have to run up it. There is a hill and I have to run down it. There is nothing I can say and nothing anyone else can do to make it easier for me. There is a hill and I run up it. This makes me happy.
Today, coming down Goodrich Four Corners to where Baker Tower appears for an instant away above the trees, I realized that all I really want to say about happiness is this: Happiness and fun are not necessarily synonymous.
