You burn off a lot of “fat”—both literally and figuratively—after you stop drinking. Off with the love handles, for many of us, sure, but off with a lot of other things too, inside and out. It’s a time of letting go, reassessing, and rebuilding in all aspects. As you take stock of what your life looks like without alcohol you instinctively start to separate the people, places, and things you’re going to keep from those to whom you’re going to say goodbye.
Pre-sobriety, running was my absolution; and the more there was to absolve myself of, the longer I ran. Many a night when I was drinking I wasted money, shaved years off my life, embarrassed myself and others, or did something objectively dangerous. And over and over again I told myself it was okay because I ran that day, or I was going to run tomorrow. My rationale was if I was running I must be doing things right. Running gave me amnesty. It allowed me to keep going, for better or for worse. Looking back, I liken it to putting a band-aid over a bullet wound. It let me go on just enough—feel mentally and physically just ok enough— that I didn’t have to change what I was doing. Holding onto this one “good” habit allowed (or, dare I say, encouraged) me to embrace denial as a virtue.
Today, thankfully, I have much less need for absolution. But of the things I assessed to determine whether they should stay in my life, running was one I decided was well worth keeping.
Running still makes me feel physically and mentally better—today from a much healthier baseline—and serves me in moving forward with things that are much more positive than just holding onto bad habits. In its new form and purpose running has become a north star around which my new life orbits.
The run:
Four miles is my favorite distance. Four is long enough to be a challenge and long enough to open your mind. Three is fine, two will do in a pinch, and five is for when you’re training for something. Four is perfect. Today I will run four.
I don’t set an alarm. I have kids so I wake up at the right time with no problem. I prefer running when it’s either freezing cold or molten hot—85 degrees and sweltering. I prefer running at 7AM in the goddamn morning, thank you very much. I put on whatever clean running gear and socks I can dig out of my drawer. I find my shoes—always the same brand, always the same model, and always the loudest, ugliest possible combination of colors available. I say goodbye to my kids and tell them to listen to Mommy while I’m gone.
I put in my headphones, trot down the steps, breathe in a damp blanket of air, hit play, and begin.
Mile One
I ruined a lot of parties, evenings, dates, weddings, birthdays—the list goes on—by starting the party before everyone else. I had a habit of starting too fast and making others pay for it later. I have the same habit when I’m running—I’m not thinking about the fourth mile when I start the first—I just want to get going, and as fast as possible. In this case, luckily, the consequences aren’t so dire, and they’re mine alone so I allow myself this one vice.
I live at the top of a hill. My street slopes down to a creek that winds through a shallow valley. I leave my house with “309” by Russian Circles on my headphones and, right out the door, I. AM. FLYING.
I’m thinking about my pace and how my knees feel. I’m letting the music fill my ears and drive my feet forward, faster and faster. I’m feeling good in my body, appreciating the feeling of being just normal, run-of-the-mill-adult-dehydrated—versus being chronically dehydrated from drinking. The former is much better.
To complete my first mile I have to cross Route 29, a six-lane road that stretches all the way north to the town where I grew up. It’s 7:06AM on a Saturday, but it’s still busy. I push the button to cross and it tells me to wait. I don’t want to wait. I run in little circles on the corner until there’s a gap between the cars and buses and I sprint across. Always too fast out of the gate.
Mile Two
I’ve done this run before and my body knows the exact moment I begin mile two. The second mile comes in like a lion. All of the things that came easily in the first mile suddenly become more difficult. My pace slows noticeably. I’m paying for my fast start. For the first half of mile two I’m not running so much as repeatedly tripping and catching myself at the last minute, over and over again.
But running is the only way I know how to feel like I’m in total control of my body, so I go on. I am deciding with every step to take another. As I do this, the energy and the surrounding air slowly start to change. I struggle up a small hill (“A More Perfect Union” by Titus Andronicus is blasting in my ears) and as I approach the top I lean into it. I feel a tremor move down my arms and out toward my fingers, and from my stomach to my toes, and I burst forward.
Suddenly my energy is back. I am a supernova and unstoppable. The second mile goes out like a lamb.
Mile Three
The surge of energy settles into a pleasant steadiness. My pace levels off and any urge to stop before it’s over evaporates entirely.
Now I start to look around a little more and the natural world makes itself known. I remember one run during the pandemic (pre-sobriety) when I took a hard left turn and quickly stopped five feet away from a ten-point buck, looking at me like I was the one out of place. I haven’t seen many deer on the trails since then and I don’t see any today. There are plenty of other things to notice though—black squirrels winding up skinny oaks. Trail-hogging dogs and dog walkers. The slow trickle of the creek flowing back toward home. The brown grass and friendly people, bonding over our unspoken shared insanity for choosing to be out here in the heat.
There’s also plenty I don’t notice. There are stretches of time, always in the third mile, that pass without my conscious awareness. I’ll run for a while and then blink back to the present moment with little memory of the past several minutes. It’s the closest I come to blacking out now—or will ever come again. I’m okay with that. This is much better.
Mile Four
I know I’m almost done so I dig a little deeper. I adjust my stride, speed up, and attack the hills.
There’s a point in any long-enough run when the world itself seems to open up and accept you as its own. You’re no longer an interloper and there are no more obstacles. I become another part of the living, undulating, effervescent fresco just like the deer and the dogs and the squirrels and the creek. My skin even seems to reach the same temperature as the air it’s moving through. I feel connected. I’m not just passing through. I’m now a thread in the rippling fabric. I belong here.
I sprint toward the end, catch my breath and cross the threshold back into my house, leaving the buzzing outside world, feeling changed. I close the door behind me. I’m grateful to know the world will always be there, waiting to welcome me, or to welcome the person I’ve become by my next run. I quickly wonder who that’ll be, and head upstairs to shower.
Running is constant, it’s cleansing, and it belongs to everyone. It is absolution and forgiveness and exoneration. Running will be there for me the next time I need it and will always be whatever I need it to be.
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