A Healthy Obsession or Running Addiction?

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In the 100-degree heat, sweat streams out of every pore as my running shoes slap the pavement, one foot after the next. It is 5 A.M. and dark, and the narrow road is pockmarked with puddles from last night’s torrential downpour. A few cars weave lazily past me, sometimes dodging the puddles, sometimes spraying water in my direction. I don’t care. I couldn’t be wetter if I were underwater. But running can be an addiction, and I am alive in the moment.

A couple, drunk still from the previous night’s festivities, stagger laughingly along the sidewalk and shout out to me with amazement that anyone should be running at this time of day. Gale force winds pummel my back, propelling me past sleeping stray dogs, and a rat skitters past my feet, almost colliding with my shoe. I keep running. The silent buildings and palm trees on the nearby shore bear witness to my madness.

I’m in Curacao, a 171-square-mile island in the southern Caribbean, 40 miles north of Venezuela. I hate the tropics. Really. Most people dream of vacationing in places like this. Soft sandy beaches, warm azure water, and plentiful corals, with colorful cocktails served by smiling bartenders under thatched roof huts and an air-conditioned bedroom. Not me. Give me snow, hot drinks, and sweaters any day instead. I’m here for a multi-week work training session (I work as a naturalist guide for a cruise ship company) and must put up with the heat and 10- to 12-hour workdays. I’m doing poorly in the training sessions and feel incompetent.

But I will not let that stop me from running.

After 7 miles of pathetic plodding, I return to my cool hotel room and open up Strava on my phone. I know I was slow in this heat, but surely I ran that one segment often enough this past week to get a “local legend” title? Yes? No. Damn. Maybe tomorrow. I check my yearly miles to date—1,452. It’s the end of September. Today is Saturday. Hmm, perhaps tomorrow I can do 12 miles. That might make the weekly total better and give me a shot at reaching 2,000 miles by the end of the year. I want to run 2,000 miles by the end of the year. I have to run 2,000 miles by the end of the year.

And yet nobody is compelling me to do this. Only me, with the help of Strava.

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A Lifestyle or A Running Addiction?

Am I addicted to running? Or am I addicted to posting my runs on Strava? On Strava, I pore over maps created from my own runs, as well as those from my friends. The photos, kudos, and comments give me joy. I adore the fact that there are no advertisements. People can create segments on trails and roads anywhere in the world, and strangers who never meet and might run or cycle at different times of the day, or even the year, can compete. I run slowly and have no chance of breaking into the top 10 record boards. But I occasionally enjoy earning the “local legend” status when I manage to run the same segment more than anyone else within the last 90 days. Even a virtual laurel crown brings satisfaction!

Before COVID-19 hit, I was a casual runner. I considered running to be a necessary evil after the pastries in the bakery called my name too loudly. When the pandemic started, I found myself going out to run more and more—donut or no donut. Pools closed. My bike was in disrepair, and my short, middle-aged, flabby body was slowly becoming flabbier, so I had to do something. My job onboard an expedition cruise ship came to a sudden halt. So, on came the shoes, and out I went, exploring the trails I previously didn’t have enough time to savor. I enjoyed the forests and hills and being outside. In online chats with friends, I heard people mention Strava more often, so I downloaded the app out of curiosity one day and started recording my runs. Slowly, both running and Strava became obsessions. Where is the border between obsession and addiction, I wondered? Is there one? I started reading about sports addiction, trying to understand.

The Science of “Too Much”

Running can be an addiction, I discovered. People laugh when you say this or nod their heads and smile, never contemplating the idea that it could be put into the same category as smoking cigarettes or shooting heroin. Running is healthy! But too much of a good thing can be a bad thing. In studies of exercise addiction, addicts have been shown to push on with their exercise regardless of negative impacts, such as lack of time. Oh, like that time I got up at 3 A.M. to run since it was my only chance? Hmmm. Exercise addicts will disrupt family and marriage and ignore physical injury, work, or other areas of life. Yes, I have been late to work more than once because I was running. And I suppose there was a time when my hip hurt tremendously for a few weeks, but I kept running. I realized that much of what I do sounds a lot like an addiction.

Yet we are repeatedly told to exercise more and that adults spend far too much time sitting still in front of computers. We are told that regular exercise plays a significant role in maintaining healthy lives and preventing disease. Well, yes, all this is true. Exercise can also improve brain performance and have an antidepressant effect. There is no doubt about that.

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that acts as a hormone that is made in your brain and sends messages to the rest of your body. Among its many functions, dopamine can make you feel good. And the point of dopamine is to cause you to seek out activities that make you feel good, as generally, they are activities associated with survival, such as eating, drinking, sleeping, moving, and competing to survive.

Endorphins are similar chemical substances that act as neurotransmitters, but they deal more with reducing pain perception. They can be released when we laugh, have sex, fall in love, play music, or exercise. The combination of pleasurable feelings plus pain relief is magical, and no wonder activities that produce both can be addicting.

Now add to the mix social media and a platform like Strava, which works perfectly for people participating in individualized sports such as running, cycling, or skiing, and you have a potent mixture indeed. We all know people addicted to social media, and no doubt everyone other than my 85-year-old mother has caught themselves wasting hours scrolling through their social media feeds. The kudos I receive on Strava from an old friend I once competed with in swimming brings a little rush of pleasure, courtesy of a small dopamine release. If that dopamine release occurs again and again from the same stimulus, addiction can set in.

But it’s not just the kudos I crave. I can compare my average pace on any run I do with other runs and with other people’s paces. That old high school classmate whom I haven’t seen in 20 years—if I can match or beat his average pace on a run, I feel delighted. If I can run farther at a faster pace and see that pace proclaimed on Strava for all my friends to see (although I do realize none of them actually care), I feel extra-delighted.

I discovered in my readings that adverse health consequences could result from exercise addiction, and impacts on the health and social lives of addicts have been documented. However, diagnosing such addiction correctly is neither easy nor straightforward. Such addiction stems most likely from both physiological and psychological reasons. These diagnoses are done mainly through questionnaires and using a few indexes that have been created, such as the EDS (exercise dependence scale) and the EAI (exercise addiction inventory). EAI, however, has not proven very effective at identifying exercisers at risk of addiction. Addiction treatment is done through a cognitive-behavioral approach, but little is known about its effectiveness.

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Running as a Life Stimulus

I run outside in any weather. I’ve run in minus 30 degrees where the air hurts to breathe, nostril hairs freeze, and eyebrows turn white with frosty mascara. I’ve run in pouring rain past indoor gyms where I can see fit dry people inside working out as I patter past them, wet as a dishrag. No doubt they pity me, yet I pity them more for the fresh air they are not breathing. I’ve run in deep snow where my average pace drops to 20 minutes per mile due to my slow leaps, my feet sinking into the soft white. I’ve run in winds that blew me sideways so that when I finally stopped, I reeled like a drunkard trying to regain my balance. My favorite runs are on forested trails near the house where I grew up in Alaska, where laughter with friends, skiing with family, and memories of love give me strength.

On days when I do not run, I am a grumpy, irritable person. Maybe that’s just my natural state. But on days when I do run, I know I am nicer, kinder, and more patient than otherwise. My family will point out that for all the time in the past when I was not running, they have had the great joy of dealing with me in that mostly irritable, non-running state, and now they would like their medals, please.

I ran nearly every day for more than two years. Once the cruise ships started up again, I worried I would not have enough time and opportunity to run. In the few weeks of preparing the ship in Italy, I ran from the port out through the quiet sleeping streets and into the hills above Genoa to watch the sunrise over the Ligurian Sea, listening to cuckoos calling in the forest and startling foraging wild boars. I saw the same woman walking her three brown dogs into the hills every morning. The dogs were sweet, unidentifiable mutts with smiling faces as cheerful as their owner, who greeted me each day with a boisterous “Buongiorno!” I missed her when we finally departed, even though we had never had a conversation. And although my colleagues onboard the ship were joyful at finally restarting our work and cruises, I yearned for the life on land and the runs and trails I had become accustomed to.

Then, I got COVID and was confined to my room onboard for seven days. I appreciated the first day and the ability to rest in bed. But by Day 2, I was restless and feeling perfectly healthy with no symptoms. Co-workers phoned me and asked if there was anything they could bring me. Yes—a treadmill, please, I pleaded. Much as I dislike treadmills, I really needed to run, so I wanted one. People thought this request was funny. “I’m not kidding,” I wailed through the phone line. Someone brought me exercise bands. NOT the same thing. I made a feeble attempt to do sit-ups. Good lord, they hurt! Nope, I hate sit-ups.

On Day 3, I phoned the ship’s doctor. “Can I go off the ship at 4 A.M. and run just for an hour? I promise not to take an elevator and not make contact with anyone while passing through the ship or off it,” I begged. We were in Malta and in port. “No way,” the doctor replied. “You have a virus; you should be resting.” I pleaded further, “But smoking addicts are catered for and given a room with a balcony so they can smoke. I need to run.” The doctor was a runner himself, so I thought he would understand. “It’s only a few days more. Try downloading an app called ‘Calm,’ he advised me. “CALM! I’ll show you calm! I don’t want to be calm; I want to run!” I shouted at the poor man through the phone line. The medical department stopped phoning to check in on me after that.

I paced across my room—10 steps, eight if I ran. I couldn’t run fast because I had to make a sharp 180 turn every eight steps, but it was better than nothing. I couldn’t record it on Strava, and even though that distressed me, at least I could run. I pocketed my phone and aimed for 10,000 steps running. It took me an hour, and I did that every morning for the next four days, wearing strange tread marks into the carpet near the walls. Now I knew it was not just Strava I was hooked on, but running itself. I wondered if I should be worried by my behavior.

They let me out of my prison the morning we arrived in Gibraltar. Old friends had joined the ship during my confinement, but I did not pause to greet them. Instead, I shot off the ship with zero regard for the duties I was meant to do that day. They waved and smiled as I ran past them, glaring angrily at the world still, and I headed off on a 9-mile run at a tremendously slow pace. It was sweltering, but at least I was free to run. I’d distressingly lost a week’s worth of mileage on Strava. I would need to make it up somehow.

As we headed north into the Arctic and lands where polar bears could make quick snacks of slow runners like myself, I stuck to the gym for my runs and got up at shockingly early hours to get more miles in before work started. A few ports before and after the icy worlds of Svalbard and Greenland allowed me to run on shore. At the northern tip of Norway, I inhaled exhaust fumes running towards Nordkapp. Thousands of tourists gawked from their buses at me, as I braced against the ferocious winds, and skittish reindeer dotting the surrounding tundra ambled about.

In Rotterdam, I hit my 1,000-mile mark for the year, running around the canals and waterways late one evening when all others had gone out for drinks and exploring this vibrant city’s nightlife. In Tromso, I explored hill trails I knew and loved from hikes in previous years. In Oslo, beautiful blond Nordic people ran past me with grace and ease I could only dream of as I huffed and puffed through the streets. In Reykjavik, I looped around the coast on paths under circling terns and curious ravens. In Longyearbyen, I had to stay within the city limits, as anyone leaving town was required to carry a rifle. Nope—I didn’t want to run with a rifle—so I ran every road that existed between houses.

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A Reason to Roam

I was born with wanderlust in my heart to parents who sacrificed sensible homely requirements, such as fixing the leaking roof or the car that barely ran, in favor of going somewhere and exploring. No wonder I ended up working on adventure cruise ships. I know the streets of Buenos Aires, Seattle, and Melbourne, as well as those in my hometown, and passing through cities I’ve explored before always brings a rush of joy to spend time in cafes or bookstores that are familiar or pubs and parks. These days, I look at places differently, though, and pore over maps for ages trying to determine the best running route. I have to overnight in Amsterdam on my flight home? Excellent! But I’m no longer excited by the thought of smoke-filled coffee shops and the vibrant nightlife in that fascinating city. Instead, I feel joy knowing there is a wild forested park near the airport filled with trails that zig-zag around small ponds and where horseback riders and runners greet each other while trotting over bridges to the sound of crunching leaves underfoot.

Frustrated at times with the treadmill onboard the ship that lurched sideways with each wave, I tried one day to run on a small outside deck in circles as the ship sailed forward. The map that Strava drew of that run was a straight line in the middle of a big ocean, my small loops too insignificant to register against the faster speed of the ship. It was bizarre and humbling to see. I was mesmerized by the map and my insignificant little attempt to run far in this big world. What does it mean to run 2,000 miles in one year? It is roughly the distance across the U.S., from New York to Seattle.

On one precious day off in Curacao, I found myself lying in the middle of a dark road, knee bleeding and elbow gashed open. “No, no, no,” I cried, but they were tears of vexation rather than pain for having tripped on the sidewalk at the start of what should have been a long run. I’d lost out on miles!  OK, OK, stay calm and recalculate, I told myself. Even if I don’t run next week, I still have three months left in the year. And 540 miles left to reach 2,000. So that’s 182 miles per month, which is about 45 miles per week. I can do this! I’ve done 65 miles in one week before (ok, that was a tough week), but 45 is still possible, right? A stranger gave me a ride back to my hotel in his car. In a country where drunk driving is tolerated as long as the driver goes slowly, a ride from a stranger at 5 A.M. can be a questionable experience. But we both survived, and I was grateful for his kindness.

Watch a child run across a lawn and you can see the sheer joy they feel in such movement. Before the weight of years compounds the gravity of adulthood and the aches and pains didn’t exist, we ran for fun. Now, I run because I can listen to the trees, see new places, feel the thud of my feet over roots and snow, soak the fresh air into my lungs, and feel what life outside in any weather can mean. I sometimes run to escape—from thoughts, situations, and work I don’t want to do. When I get stuck on a problem, I tend to drop it and run. When I’m feeling angry with someone, I go running. When I am working on a task, and it all seems impossible, or when the thing I am attempting to read seems too much for any human to comprehend, I stop and run. I also run when I feel joy, energy, and brightness in the world that finds an outlet through my legs. One day, my legs will stop working. But until that time, I am grateful.

But I also run because in this age of endless possibilities, when a person can try to be anything, accomplish a myriad of incredible things, and get lost in the ceaseless trying and constant failing—I know I can run. When a million doubts plague my existence, and I feel uncertain about everything, I know at least I can step outside and put one foot in front of the other. And then the other foot. It might not be fast, but at whatever slow pace my body dictates, I can run.

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The Need to Run

Running is worth it. After reading about the dangers of addiction, I come up with a plan. I don’t intend to stop running, but I will test myself to ensure I am not heading in a dangerous direction. I create a checklist for myself.

1. Does a part of my body hurt? Could it hurt more if I go running now?
2. Will any of my friends or family members with whom I should be spending precious time be annoyed if I go running now?
3. Am I supposed to be at work now?
4. Will I burst into frustrated tears if Strava malfunctions and my run does not get recorded?
5. Is Viggo Mortensen currently sitting on my couch willing to chat with me and I STILL am seriously contemplating going running? (Suitable substitutes include Bono, Aidan Turner, or Liam Neeson.)

The answer to all questions must be “no” before I can go running.

On my last day in Curacao, I ran the route into town I had most often followed. At the end, I glanced hopefully at Strava. Maybe I had reached that local legend title? No. I had not. The glow of satisfaction eluded me, and the small jolt of dopamine was not mine that day. But I will keep running.

Only 438 miles left to go.

The author, running her favorite trail race, the Equinox Marathon, in Fairbanks, Alaska. (Photo: Todd Paris)

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