That's Not Fair!

It was Friday afternoon and although it was nearly six p.m., the temperature was stuck at 90 degrees. I hadn't run a step that day, but my legs were dead, the victims of a five-day stretch that included a long run, a track workout, and -- just the day before -- a tempo run done in similar heat that had extracted most of the fluid from my body for the purpose of extruding it uselessly through my pores. Since the high humidity kept most of that sweat from evaporating, it didn't help much.

In other words, on Friday I wasn't feeling especially chipper as I pulled the car into the Parking Lot at the Battle Road Park Headquarters. After some half-hearted attempts to introduce some flexibility into my stiff legs, I started my afternoon run at a stumble, and gathered momentum only with great effort.

After a mile and a half, feeling slightly better but still not what I would call "energetic," I overtook two fellow travelers. One of them was older and somewhat stout. The other was a teenager, wearing sneakers. They had stopped to rest, but just before I reached them they started jogging again. I pulled over to the right of the trail and went by. And at that moment -- at the moment when the difference between my pace and the pace of the boy and his aged relative was most contrasted, the man said distinctly, and in reference to me, "That's not fair!"

I kept going, but I thought about that comment for the rest of the run.

I could see where it came from, that comment. From where he stood, what I was doing looked pretty damn effortless. I mean, it probably seemed like I was just loping along like a deer, without effort or concern. That's what it looked like.

From where I stood, or ran, rather, I felt like it was taking a LOT of effort to run at a pace that wasn't especially fast, and would be an embarrassment to any self-respecting deer who happened along the trail. And if I did happen to be running at a fair pace in some absolute sense, well, hadn't I earned the right to do that by taking running so seriously all these years and putting in all those miles? I mean, perhaps I did start out with some genetic pre-disposition to being able to run seven-minute miles all day long. What exactly wasn't fair about running fast when that had been the whole point of my training for so long?

And then, just as my pot of resentment and indignation came to a boil, it occurred to me that I had whined in almost the exact same way a few days earlier. I had been watching and listening to a pianist who was sight-reading a rather difficult piece. I remember thinking the same thing: "That's not fair!" I didn't say it out loud, but i was sure thinking that it looked like the coolest thing in the world to have the ability to translate marks on paper into music.

I don't suppose that the piano player was born with the ability to sight-read, but even if he had started out with a genetic pre-disposition to it, what exactly wasn't fair about the realization of that ability? The bottom line was that I was witnessing the end result of a long process to master something difficult.

And yet, however unreasonable a feeling, I reacted the same way as the pair who saw me running on the trail.

You know, it ISN'T fair. As the human family sits around the Christmas tree of life opening gifts, not everyone gets the same color scarf. In fact, some of us get the shiny new electronic gadget, and some of us get socks... or books... or equally practical. It really isn't fair that I get to enjoy running and other people don't. And if I work at it, well what else would I do? Sit around watching TV while pondering how my mitachondria would be humming along happily, if I were actually doing something?

Better, I think, to enjoy what talents one has and bear oneself humbly, if possible, as the custodian of those talents. And if that means that no one can tell or cares the amount of effort that goes into using and maintaining those talents, well isn't that the way it should look?