Marathoners Anonymous

Hi, my name is [pjm], and I’m in an abusive running relationship. (Hi, [pjm].)

Her name is Boston, I’ve been infatuated with her since I was in kindergarten. She’s distant enough to be exotic, and close enough to give me an illusion of comfort. But the last time we had a date, she deserted me on the side of the road in Brookline and left me to find my own way home on the Green Line.

I disguised my interest for decades. I fooled around with other distances, trying to make myself a runner she would be interested in. As I got older, I took to visiting yearly, torturing myself by watching as she put on her best clothes and danced with others.

I tried to introduce myself through her friends. The first two—call them Maine and Marine Corps—were happy to have me, but wouldn’t introduce me to Boston. Finally Columbus gave me her number.

I should have seen it coming. I trained compulsively, even self-destructively through injuries, seeking out the hilliest and longest loops. Our date was a sunny day, and I thought I was set, but actually I was set up. She decided I was too enthusiastic, and broke me. I was left wrapped in a thermal blanket and propped in a corner of a trolley, too tired to stand, too cramped and sore to sit.

It took months to recover, and like any of you who have seen this side of her, I swore I would never return. But secretly I thought, perhaps if I had been injury free, perhaps if I had run more miles, she would like me. I tried dating her cousins, the shorter distances, again, and they seemed to like me, appreciating my efforts and sometimes rewarding me with gifts of their own.

Some of my friends tell me I should settle down with a nice, mildly challenging half-marathon. There’s a ten-miler in my area who’s available and has treated me well. Somehow they’re just not the same. Other friends, less responsible, tell me stories about their dates with Boston. One has taken her out seven or eight times now, and I can tell she’s abused him too, but he gets this hungry look in his eyes when he talks about sitting in the mud in Hopkinton, waiting for another date.

It’s been years now. I did more mileage than ever before. I shuddered when I added up the numbers in my log, and again when I saw how much I was spending on shoes, laying the worn-out ones before her like some twisted sacrifice. I was up every day before dawn, following the thin gleam of reflected moonlight on the rail of the track through my workouts. I visited with her friend Baystate a few months ago, and with some persuading, he agreed to set me up again with Boston.

She said she would be free in April, and that I should come visit, but before I could even think about saying yes, I was injured and all my work lay in dust around me. Maybe next year, I said. She must know that line from her neighbors the Red Sox. She says she’s sorry about last time, she says she’s changed, but I know she hasn’t. Just look at me now, wrecked by even the thought.

I know she’s bad for me, but I just can’t stay away. Help me, please.

[pjm] is in (physical) therapy in Northampton, Massachusetts