As I made my way into the starting corral, I started to shiver.
It was a frigid morning, reinforced by a fierce north wind. And I was hardly dressed for it.
As I leaned down to stretch, I noticed the contradiction. I was wearing shorts and an athletic t-shirt, while everyone else around me was decked out in sweatpants and jackets.
Most of these outerwear items appeared ragged and mismatched. But that was beside the point. Those sporting them seemed warm, while I was burning precious energy trying to keep from freezing.
As I pondered my predicament, I heard an announcement over the loudspeakers.
5 minutes until the starting gun.
Almost in unison, I saw the fellow runners around me shed their outer layers and tossed them aside. Piles of sweatpants accumulated on the edges of the corral. Scores of jackets cascaded over the perimeter fencing.
The finish line for this race was located several blocks away from here. We wouldn’t be coming back, and there would be no opportunity to retrieve these items. The other runners were effectively throwing them away.
But no one seemed worried about that. After all, there was a race to run.
A few weeks after I crossed the finish line, I stepped onto a running track near my home before sunrise.
It was Track Tuesday, and I had a workout planned on the circuit. But first I needed to warm up.
So, I joined a group of fellow runners who were jogging a few laps on the track.
I knew these runners well enough to expect a conversation topic to dominate our warmup. But this morning’s topic caught me off guard.
Throwaway clothes.
This was the accepted term for the sweatpants and jackets I’d seen littering the corral at my recent race. It represented warmup gear that was intentionally abandoned.
My fellow runners explained that throwaway clothes were best purchased on the cheap at thrift stores or Walmart. The look and fit didn’t matter, because you wouldn’t have those items on you for long anyway.
Essentially, throwaway clothes were a means to an end. Much like the carbohydrate gel packs runners kept in the pockets of their shorts, or the water cups at the aid stations on the racecourse, they were meant to be used once and quickly disposed of.
No looking back. No remorse. No regret. The clothes did their job so that we could do ours.
I struggled to accept this concept. For it clashed heavily with my ethos.
I had become accustomed to looking stylish while exercising. I was convinced that mismatched shorts and shirts were for hobby joggers. As a competitive distance runner, I aimed to appear professional.
On top of that, I was beholden my late grandfather’s golden rule. Never throw anything away if you can get more use from it.
Now, I was being advised to violate both principles. All in the service of a greater goal.
Fortunately, I had time to adjust. Winter was nearing its end as we bantered on the track, and warmup gear was already becoming a moot point.
I would soon be showing up at the starting lines my usual garb. And so would everyone else. No sweatpants or jackets to be found in the corral.
Still, I knew I needed a plan for the cooler mornings ahead. If I was to race well in the fall, I needed to avoid freezing in the corral again.
So, I began to get my throwaway gear plan in order. But fate kept me from rolling it out.
I sustained an injury while training in the summer. I recovered, only to retain another series of injuries and undergo ankle surgery.
I never did make to the starting line of another race. And I never did end up purchasing throwaway clothes.
The end I was working towards had evaporated. And so had the means to get there.
I am proud of what I achieved in my racing career, abbreviated as it was.
The race times I posted still astonish me. The hardware I collected adorns a wall in my home. The talented people I trained with remain dear friends.
Still, it’s hard not to wince when reminiscing on it all. For even without throwaway clothes, the means to an end perspective percolates through my competitive running odyssey.
Each training block I tackled was designed to get me through the next race. Each race time I posted was the bar to clear for the next one.
I was on a long-distance journey, but each milestone was disposable.
Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where I was, instead of where I was going. Perhaps I should have soaked up the moment a bit more.
But it’s hard to blame myself. After all, I’m hardly the only one to make this type of error – both in the running community and outside of it.
Indeed, means to an end describes a great portion of our society. So much of what we do, what we consume, and what we expose ourselves to is devoid of cultural relevance.
It’s what those actions, those goods, and those experiences can lead us to that’s deemed important. The rest is simply the price of admission.
Yet, we struggle to accept that reality.
For we are wired to find meaning in utility, to seek purpose in the journey. The narrative arc is not just the domain of Disney movies; it’s the cornerstone of our lives.
Furthermore, we are appalled by the notion that we might be means to an end. That we could be viewed as interchangeable, non-essential, or otherwise lacking in unique value.
So, we fight the good fight. We strive to prove how essential each stone along our path is. And we take each rebuke as an affront to our self-worth.
In essence, we set ourselves up for misery – day in, day out. And we suffer accordingly.
How do we get out of this rut?
How do we accept the transactional, the interchangeable – all without losing our soul in the process?
It starts between the ears.
Fighting against society’s gravitational pull is like shouting at a brick wall. It’s a lot of effort that yields few results.
It’s far better to work on our own narrative. To take stock of what we feel is essential and what we deem disposable. And to separate those sentiments from the prevailing winds.
Such defined dissonance requires discipline. It requires focus. It requires grit.
It’s a hard bargain. But for the sake of our sanity, it’s worthwhile.
So, let’s get after it.