This column by Simon Gear first appeared in Runners World SA in May 2008

When I first met my wife, she was an adherent of the teachings of the late Maharishi Yogi.  That’s the same guy who got the Beatles and a host of other 60s icons into transcendental meditation.  Not having been brought up in a tradition that even got within a standard marathon of eastern mysticism, I was naturally curious about meditation and we had quite a few discussions about it in those early days.  I remain sceptical about some of the broader claims made by the TM movement, but what struck me was how eerily familiar the immediate, personal effects of a twenty minute meditation are.  Decreased stress levels, along with a long-term decrease in all of the biophysical and biochemical signs of stress.  A feeling of relaxation, of clarity and of being refreshed.  A sense of peace and a release from the concerns of the day.  A brighter, more ‘healthy’ physical appearance that clearly sets you apart from others.  Beginning to ring a bell?

The effects of TM on the meditators that I know and the effects of running seem almost identical.  Added to that, the experience of one of those perfect runs smacks so much of an out of body experience that I’m inclined to declare them one and the same.  All of this points to the fact that running really is apart from other sports.  There is no other sport that is dominated by participants rather than spectators in quite the same way that running is.  If Bernie Eccleston or Sep Blatter ran world athletics, there would be a world series of a dozen 10km races featuring the same small bunch of athletes in each of the world’s major cities.  It actually sounds quite fun but would you get up at 5am on a Sunday to watch it?  Of course not.  You’d be out running yourself.   I love that about us.  I can’t tell you the names of more than a handful of Athens’ gold medallists but I can remember every step of a five kay PB I ran a decade ago.

And running holds onto people in a unique way too.  I know very, very few people who used to run.  In fact, apart from people who took to running purely to complete one specific goal, such as Oprah’s marathon challenge or the millennium Comrades, everyone I know who has ever run still identifies themselves as runners, even if they haven’t actually renewed their ASA licence since 2003.

I’ve said before that I’m not a huge fan of the whole ‘loneliness of the long distance runner’ ideal but curiously, that only applies to training.  Sunday morning long runs remain the social highlight of my week and I love their chatty, relaxed nature.  We weave through the sleeping suburbs, barking at dogs and teasing cyclists (“Hey, Cappuccino boy! What’s your 10k PB?”), but races are a very different story.  Anyone who has raced with me will know that on the big days, I like things quiet.  I can happily run Comrades without chatting to a soul, and will generally greet friends and seconds with a smile of recognition but little else.  If I get caught by one of those loud, vocal busses, I’ll rather stop for a couple of minutes and let them through than run with a guy who wants to greet every uphill with a song.

It’s because, when done right, running gets pretty mystical for me and singing a song about the urinary habits of toddlers feels odd.  Also, when I’m tired, the first thing I lose is my sense of humour.  This is probably best summed up by the one verse in religious text that jumps out at me and it might be because it is engraved over a huge plinth at the 7km mark of my old school cross country course, where I first learnt the cleansing power of pain:

“Be still and know that I am God”

Be still and know.

Be still.

Be…

A runner.

Always.