60km of running. 60 seconds of film. 658 Laps.

It was at the 250-lap mark that the tedium really set in. I’m used to putting one foot in front of the other for hours on end, dealing with the highs and lows of an ultramarathon or a tricky trail run, but this was different.

This wasn’t why I ran.  Running has always been about exploration to me. I love closing the door behind me, and setting off on an adventure (even a run around the park can be adventurous with the right frame of mind.) I love the rollercoaster--the euphoria you get from a particularly steep hill climb or a slippery but well-navigated descent through poison oak, and the complete devastation that comes with severe dehydration and being utterly and completely lost in the middle of nowhere with not a bar of reception in sight. 

So, you might say that running 60km in laps around the outside of the house was a surprising choice for my Sunday run. But with the world in such unfamiliar territory at the moment, I thought it was an opportunity to take my running to a different place. Well, the same place. Perhaps I was seeking some sort of familiarity, some comfort that comes with being at home. Perhaps I wanted to bring a physical aspect to my daily meditation practice. Or, more likely, perhaps I’ve gone a little mad with all this sheltering-in-place. 

Nonetheless, I started running. The first few laps were a bit of a novelty. My wife was both cheering and laughing at me, my six-month-old son was more interested in playing with an empty water bottle. As the novelty wore off, the repetition really set in. I started to notice little details--small cracks in the pavement next to the water heater, the knot in the wooden fence that kind of looked like a face, the lizard with half a tail that lives beneath the lemon tree. My shadows became my focus. The way they changed ever so slightly with each lap a good reminder that time had not, in fact, stood still.  

Then the tedium set in. I became acutely aware of my lack of rhythm. I was turning a corner every few seconds, it was impossible to hit a groove. I couldn’t zone out, or think about getting to top of a hill, or the next aid station. My shadows were no longer a result of the sun, but instead the front porch light, the living room glow, the flickering of the TV. The temptation to stop was ever-present. I’m used to having no choice but to keep going, and this felt like the opposite. 

 When I did finally stop, an uneventful beep of my watch marking 60km run, I felt mentally exhausted in a way I wasn’t expecting. By not zoning out, I had turned my focus inwards.  

I woke up the next day and felt as if I had dreamed the whole thing. I had cabin fever but had travelled so far. I checked the front lawn, the tracks through the grass a reminder that it had happened after all. But my shadows, the ones that kept me company for those seven hours, were nowhere to be found.