I Run
7. 나는 달린다
I Run
The body remembers. When the wind blows cool through the leaves along the darkened autumn trail, I want to run.
It was early in the morning on October 20, 2002. I boarded a charter bus for Chuncheon in front of the Hotel Koreana in Gwanghwamun, central Seoul. At 25 years of age, I had signed up for a full marathon, boldly determined to push my body and mind to their limits over the 42.195-kilometer (about 26-mile) run. I believed in myself.
I disembarked at Chuncheon Stadium and changed into breathable, sweat-wicking clothes. My sneakers, which would be absorbing some of the shock to my ankles and knees, were well fitted to my feet by now. It was still morning, so I began loosening my stiffened joints with some free calisthenics, walking briskly around to warm my body up.
I’d supplied my muscles with the glycogen they would need for long-distance running by eating carbohydrate-rich foods. I had also matched my daily training to the event’s time frame, so my body was perfectly attuned. The sky was a little overcast, it wasn’t too hot, and there was a breeze blowing—it was perfect.
Standing at the starting line, I puffed out my chest and straightened my back. I set my jaw slightly, taking care to ensure my breathing did not become uncontrolled. The secret to success in a marathon lies in maintaining your breathing in regular intervals until you reach the finish line.
You focus when you breathe in and relax when you breathe out. With the bang of the starting pistol, I eased into a run. After a half hour or so, my body had warmed up comfortably and I began to feel a runner’s high.
My body felt light, as though I were riding on a flying carpet. Now one with the landscape, my mind was free and my head was clear. I sped up my pace to match the momentum of my legs until I realized just in time that I was going faster than the pace I’d set for myself. I still had a long way to go, and I knew I shouldn’t start setting my sights on the record books. I shifted my focus back to my breathing.
The magical, crimson-tinted landscape around Uiamho Lake, the long lines of people cheering, and me. The challenges and failures of the past, the discouragement, disappointments, and regrets . . . The people who had left me behind, the people I had left behind, the scars, the resentment, the lingering feelings . . . The anxieties of the future. . . .
Taking advantage of my mind’s relaxed state, the memories began pouring back, and I assigned names to each one of the dregs of as-yet unburned emotion attached to them, letting them drift away with each step.
By the halfway point or so, I was not having any trouble, physically or mentally. I had been training every weekend for three months at Yeouido Hangang Park, and I was encouraged by the success I’d had running the Hankyoreh newspaper’s half-marathon on the first day of the new year. But the second half was still uncharted territory.
As I passed the 30-kilometer (about 19-mile) mark, my breathing grew more ragged. As I wiped my face with the back of my hand, the sun-dried sweat came away as crystals of salt. I couldn’t stop. I had to keep moving, even if I was just walking—for I knew that if I stopped, I wouldn’t be able to start running again.
I could see the finish line in the distance. But my movements were becoming duller, and I found myself unable to generate speed. My mind was a blank white sheet, free of thought, and the powerful urge to finish began shining its lone light. What sustained my mind at that moment was my muscles, tempered from my keeping a daily exercise journal.
Had it not been for my firm abdominals in particular, my lungs would have given out and I would have been forced to drop out when my spine began arching forward around the 35-kilometer (about 22-mile) mark. Grit alone would not have been enough. Mental strength is only useful when it is paired with physical strength.
Finally, I reached the stadium’s oval track. I could hear the cries of the waiting crowd and see the flashes of the photographers’ cameras. Exerting my last ounce of strength, I raced across the finish line. Then I dropped face-first onto the grass and gasped for air.
I felt surprisingly calm. Three hours, 27 minutes, 18 seconds. I had finished the Chosun Ilbo newspaper’s Chuncheon Marathon. All of the things I ingrained in my body and mind in those days have carried on as I sit in Sŏn meditation today.
A moderate diet without cigarettes or alcohol, comfortable clothing, stretching, keeping my back straight, breathing evenly, focus, letting go of ambition, addressing idle thoughts, confidence, strong will, balance of body and mind, and steady, scientific, and systematic practice—all of these represent a single principle, which cuts across the boundaries between the “action” focus of a marathon and the “rest” focus of seated meditation.
If there is a difference between the two, it lies in the vow. There remains only the one great desire, which is to become a buddha and color the world with grace.
