Miles Take Love

On taking yourself down the road. 

By Duda Kovarky Rotta

Illustration by Iris Pope

As it turns out, we need to take care of ourselves. We each have our ways to get by: journaling, a good-enough lover, a $28 salad, Korean skincare, confession, an IV-drip of self-pity, some lemon-ginger-hot-water-morning shot to wash down the Valium. Actually, no lemon in the water anymore—last week’s experts said it made you thin but now, turns out, it makes you shallow. Everybody needs a little pick-me-up and a little put-me-down. This semester, I came to the wonderfully humbling realization that I could not run to save my life. And not in the proverbial sense: between the choices of fight or flight, my fleeing option could only last about five minutes before a hands-to-knees defeat. So, from the wide list of potions to get by, I took up running. Reluctantly, I relinquished the pleasure of making fun of athletes—particularly Garmin-wearing, Strava-updating runners—and stepped down from my sedentary tower. 

Given the extra push of an honorable P.E. credit, I made my way to the Ruggles Hall treadmills. The position of running coach was quickly filled by the Executive Assistant to the Managing Editor, whose side-hustles include walk-on D1 Athletics and a best-friendship with moi. Nevertheless, she found time for my endeavor, and served as my greatest cheerleader. “Moving is moving,” she’d repeat whenever I’d complain about my lack of athleticism—but never shied from amusing herself by joking that my favorite gym exercise was the downhill bike. And it was true to an extent—my answer to the familiar “do you play sports?” used to be an unironic “yoga.” Still, after each run, I reported all my numbers to her, and she’d insist vehemently that I was improving. Even during the 10-day freeze in January, she’d bundle me in her athletic paraphernalia so I could finally graduate from the treadmill and run outside. Despite looking like the most enthusiastic fan of the Women’s Rowing Team, I could now at least outrun a robber (of the chainsmoking, frail kind). 

The hints of summer eased the cold, and running became easier. I ran often on late afternoons, enjoying the breeze of the Hudson, hoping for pink clouds. Afterwards, my friends joked at the dinner table that I had discovered endorphins. Still, I never found running to be meditative. If anything, I frequently had to stop midway through if a memory made my heart race faster than my legs, and even on the best days, never felt the famed runner’s high. Music helped; beats per minute, lyrical distraction, or encouraging words all made running a bit easier. My choices of soundtrack varied widely—lots of Madonna, Chuck Berry, Tim Maia. Emboldened by the wack nature of running itself, I listened to Cameron Winter, who is certainly more of a dragger than a runner. His raspy voice slouched along the chords, but, out of breath, I returned again and again to his “Love Takes Miles.” I asked questions that could only be answered by the harmonic mixture of my feet hitting the ground with his stupid voice. How do I get faster? How far can I go without stopping? How long will it take to get far? Feet on the ground, what I want is far away. Love takes miles, love takes years. 

Even in the face of such questions, it turns out that there’s only so much you can inspect about yourself if you’re heaving like a pig. Yes, our particular mutation of capitalism commodifies even the most basic needs, and physical exercise is no exception. I’m sure there are wonderful articles living in JSTOR about how running is exploitation or perhaps revolution. Whatever sliver of autonomy over our own lives we may still have—there is something caring about carrying your own body further on. There is a distinct quality in seeing how far you can go, or perhaps if you could bring yourself home. And, in the end, you will look foolish no matter what you do—there’s hardly any glory to the fatigue of moving between two points you set for yourself, with no teamwork nor score nor prize. Just the goal to keep going. 

If you’re not sure where to go, walk a mile in someone else’s shoes—time isn’t running out. Run out of things to say, walk away from heartbreak, run behind schedule, walk out on a dream that no longer fits. Walk on water, walk all walks of life, walk back on your word. Run on empty, run on fumes, run away from a childhood fear. Learn to run to save your life. Take a walk down memory lane, run after the things you want. Know that, at the very least, we had a good run. You better start a-walking, babe, love takes miles. And you might find, either out of breath or road to run, that you have taken yourself a bit further.