For the Love of Running

My joy comes from sandy, salty, mountainous routes that might be a little crazy. Where does yours come from? 

I was a 21-year-old college kid when I decided to run a marathon. In December of my senior year at the University of California at Santa Barbara, a friend talked me into signing up for a race that coming March. The L.A. Marathon would be a two-hour drive south of where we were in school. 

I’d been running the beaches and bluffs around campus for a couple of years since quitting college volleyball. (I was a walk-on who juggled volleyballs on the sidelines.) I’d hopped in 5Ks and 10Ks held on campus and thought running was fun. It was something physical that wasn’t an organized sport, which I’d been dependent on keeping me active since my early childhood. I knew nothing about training. I just knew I needed to start running further in order to be able to complete 26.2 miles a couple of months later. 

I started tacking on a little extra time to my evening runs around campus, sometimes covering a few extra of blocks or stretch of beach after sunset. I never knew how many miles I was covering. I didn’t even wear a watch. I just tried to stay out on my feet for more perceived time, cover more perceived distance. 

On occasional Friday nights, as college students do, my friends and I would head to the bars. I’d offer to drive in my small Toyota pick-up truck. We’d meet up with other friends in downtown Santa Barbara, and revel in being young with new, legitimate IDs getting us into bars that served us beer. (So much beer.) At the end of the night, we’d take a 15-minute, 10-ish mile taxicab ride home to our grungy college apartment. My truck stayed parked outside of a bar. 

On occasional Saturday mornings, as college students do, I’d wake up a little hungover. I’d grab my truck key and stick it in the pocket of my running shorts, put on my shoes and socks, and head out the door for what I knew would cure my aching head. 

I suppose I could have taken the bike path. Or the neighborhood sidewalks. Instead, I hit the beach, running slowly on the hardpacked sand as the waves touched the shore. I’d jump over piles of seaweed and try to not step on the tar balls Santa Barbara is famous for, thanks to offshore oil drilling (the tar) and Jack Johnson (the song that mentions the tar). Since there was no internet, I never checked the tide charts. Some Saturday mornings served up low tide, giving me plenty of hardpacked sand to run on; that stuff is springy like a rubber track. Other days, I’d find myself slogging through soft sand at high tide, with occasional respites of firmer sections. 

Every time I did this run, there’d be rivermouths to navigate. Multiple streams flow from the interior of Santa Barbara to the Pacific Ocean. At low tide, I could hop across them, stepping on the raised portions of sand caused by the water’s flow, and only get the bottoms of my shoes wet. Other times—most times—I’d have to choose between keeping my shoes on or taking them off before wading across 20 or 30 feet of water up to my knees. I think I most often took off my shoes and socks and carried them in one hand before putting them back on to run again. I remember there being somewhere between three to five of these crossings, and I remember loving them. They’d both cool me off and feel like I was on some great adventure. 

I was. 

Thirteen or so miles later—which likely took two or three hours to cover—after I’d spotted the Santa Barbara pier and turned inland for a few blocks of concrete, I’d find my truck. Happy, salty, and exhausted, I’m sure I got myself some food downtown before returning to life as a college student. 

This is how I fell in love with running. 

The marathon turned out fine. I finished pretty well. But it’s the adventure running that I continued to do. It’s what I still crave now, 30 years later. These days, that looks like picking an alpine lake on a map around running to it, or to the Continental Divide, with my like-minded girlfriends. We usually jump in one of those lakes before returning to the car. We take the key with us but leave it on a granite rock while we dunk. 

Running doesn’t have to look the same for everyone. For me, it’s a way to explore, adventure, and fall into a rhythm that lets me both think and not think while I’m enjoying the natural world around me. 

Running doesn’t have to be for everyone. But I’m hoping that anyone who wants to love running can find the version of it that makes me smile as big as I am right now, remembering these funny outings all those years ago…and craving my next adventure. 

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