Erin Quinn

Where Distance Running and Art Intersect

I’ve always loved to run and I’ve always loved to write. As a journalist, I’ve written stories about outdoor adventures and featured exceptional people in the endurance space. As a teenage runner, back in the late 80’s and early 90’s, I couldn’t wait to get done with my run and write down all of the details in my spiral bound, 52-week training log. It was short and wide, and made of thick paper stock. It had an introduction by Olympic runner and then, American marathon record holder, Bill Rodgers.

There were no smartphones or GPS watches so I had to put pen to the paper. I would write down my running route in one column, followed by the mileage in the next column. I’d have to do some quick math and estimate my overall pace and put that in as well. But It was the last box, the largest box, which was my favorite—the comments section of the journal. This was where I was able to reflect on the run, write how it I had felt. I would usually add what type of workout it was, who I had run it with, and more often than not, I would have more to say than space allowed, so I’d be turning the book sideways to write in the margins. There were even places where I would draw out the route or the hills with a stick figure running up them.

I think it helped me process the workout and tuck it away. When I was gearing up for a race or just wanting to see how my progress was going, I liked to look back through the journals and see all of the miles I had put in. It helped build self-efficacy; holding a copy of the work I had put in. I could visually see the miles and hill work, mile repeats or LSD (Long, slow distance) runs I had completed.

I can still feel the weight of that book in my hands, spread out over my lap as I wrote, usually still sweaty and salty after my run. There was such a power in that simple act of putting pen to paper. So much so that I still think about to this day.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the automatic data from the wearables as much as anyone else. Well, maybe not as much as some people, but it is convenient and probably more accurate than my old, estimated distances and pace-range. Recording runs in that era was more of an artform than it is now.

Which brings me to the topic of this post– Running as art. Or Art as running. When we set out on a run, it’s more than just a linear journey. As we move our legs and feet, we’re also thinking, dreaming, writing, seeing, creating, and who knows? Maybe even singing as we move along the streets and trails. There’s a lot that happens on a run that no one but yourself ever knows or gets to see. Even when it comes to influencers who vlog their entire runs or races. There’s the internal world that can never be fully documented.

It was during a New Year’s Eve ritual my two best friends and I do every year, that made me think of an idea. We were reflecting on the year and setting our intentions for the upcoming year. All three of us talked about wanting to engage in more creative pursuits. We didn’t make any big, elaborate goals or declarations, but all recognized this desire, to have our hands thick with glue or paint or ink or clay or something.

We wanted to have a practice that allowed us to dive into that slipstream of creation. It might involve beads or yarn or paintbrushes or the act of putting the pen to the paper. The medium was immaterial; it was the act of creating that we all craved more of.

The constant temptation to swipe smartphones endlessly or doom scroll on social media can erode the drive to create. But the act of creation is so much more empowering. In fact, what we all noted is that whenever we’re engaged in making art, it serves as an antidote to anxiety and fear. Rather than getting lost in that shitty-flow of virtual consumption, we could choose instead to paint figures, stitch patterns, find a way to put more color into the world rather than growing dark or mute.

The Challenge

I decided that I would try and write a poem a day for the month of January. That was the only rule. No specific length. No formal structure, no thematic constraints. Why not? The only way to get better at something is to do the thing. And it was a promise to myself. I believe that those are the promises we need to try and keep. We have to promise ourselves that we’re going to show up in some form. I do this every time I commit to a run or to coach or to writing an article by deadline. It’s the act of doing it, again and again that builds fortitude to complete the task when it gets hard and it always gets hard. Anything worthwhile in life does.

There’s an interesting sweet spot that I’ve found between the two disciplines– so much so that I decided to loosely frame my poems based on the run I had done that day. Writing and running both create an intimacy with self, but in different ways.

When I run, I feel very much tethered to my body. I’m very aware of the landscape I’m running in. I know what my breath sounds like and how my legs feel as they begin to climb a hill. There’s that feeling of sweat beginning to pool on my lower back and along my neck and temples. There’s that sound of feet falling and tapping the ground again and again and the connection with my heartbeat. I know when I’m pushing and I know when I’m laying off the gas. I’m my own vessel and I have to steer from inside my anatomical, physical self.

Writing, on the other hand is so cerebral. When I’m deep into a story or an article or more recently poetry, the world fades away from me. I’m not aware of my body or breath or heartbeat at all. It’s like a screen background that has been put on fade. The only time I notice my body is when I’ve been writing for so long that a limb goes numb or my back starts to hurt, or I have to stretch my legs.

I’m completely inside my the ecosystem of my mind.

By writing a poem, based on a run, it creates an dynamic intersection. It puts words to a heartbeat and heartbeat to words. It develops a narrative that envelopes parts of the run, while also capturing some of the strands that weave a day.

More simply put, it makes running and writing more fun, more full of pulp and juice and citrus explosions. When I go to write my poem of the day, it reminds me of that same excitement I would get when opening my old running logs. There’s something that I will write, that I will be able to have and to hold, long after the run is done. It frames each run.

That doesn’t mean that it does not take effort. It does. There have been nights when I’m home late and am tired, my brain shutting down after coaching a 3-day swim meet.

I stare at the computer screen. I type out the title, which is always just Winter and then the number of the day. Like running, this poetry practice has created a foundation. It’s building. Word by word, day by day, effort by effort. When I’m doing it, I’m completely absorbed and present. I’m scanning through my run and trying to mind my body and mind for memories or images or just words strung together that create the mood of the run. The shadows that fell in front of me or to the side of me, or the conversation the sun was having with the sky and that the stars were having with each other.

When I’m done. I pick a few pictures from that day and then I post it to Instagram. I don’t look back. I just complete it. Maybe someone else likes it, maybe they don’t. That’s okay. I just need a place to put it. To showcase it. To tack it up on a wall, so to speak. I do the same with my runs. When I’m done, I load them into an app that allows me to write “post-activity comments.” I can let that rip! Both writing and running are my ways of processing life and enhancing my experience inside of it. Movement, nature, art and love. Those are the forces at work, always. They are the currents I choose to swim in.

31-days is doable. I’ll be sad when it’s over, because at the end of the day, I have two things that I’ve worked for and that are measurable. I’ve gone for a run and I’ve written a poem. Neither one is perfect, but both have brought me joy.

The question now is, what should I do in February?

—Erin Quinn

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