When I was a boy, I was all hung up on Bruce Jenner. Before he became the Guardian of the Kardashians, he was the epitome of the all American athlete, winning this “athalon” and that “athalon…” When my father informed me that Jenner grew up not far from where we lived in suburban New York, his status was crystallized in my superhero driven mind.

While I didn’t actually watch the Olympics when he competed, he seemed to show up on every cereal box down the “crunchy fun” aisle, from Wheaties to Special K, and he became an instant hero. Bruce Jenner was a real life Superman. I knew Superman didn’t really exist but Bruce Jenner did.

At the same time, a new brand of sneaker called Zips came onto the scene with a particularly flashy ad campaign. Tween boys would slip on a pair of the special shoes and take off into the sky like home grown super heroes. I wanted Zips (with the BIG ‘Z’) on my feet because I required the added speed they would surely provide thus allowing me to run like the wind around my block for hours. I was seven years old and I honestly believed the claims they made on TV that they would double my speed. I was already crazy fast, but double? Faster than a speeding train?

My mother, against her better judgment and far above the modest cost of my usual pair of Keds agreed to get me the magic running shoes at Marshall’s Shoe Store. I had them out of the box and on my feet before we pulled into the driveway. It was a warm summer day and the sun (as well as the son) still had some legs before dusk. I reassured my mother that I’d be back around the enormous block in no time…I now possessed the proper equipment to optimize my performance.

Whoooshhhhaaaaaa! I was like lightning out of the gate.

I was sure I could feel my new sneakers lift the rubber soles above the sweltering pavement helping me achieve a supernatural cruising altitude. I already envisioned my beaming face on the Wheaties box, relishing the jealous stares of every little boy around the breakfast tables of America.

I was on fire.

Until I hit the Wall.

My wiry, little legs pumped faster and harder than they had ever experienced previous to Zips Day and they suddenly, simply, said “No.”

“But…? But, I have the Zips now?”

“No. Done. Over. You’re a scrawny little kid and it’s hot out and there’s that German Shepherd growling and did you really think plastic shoes would make you faster? You’re done. Just stop. Walk it on home. Retire while you’re at your peak.”

By the time I made it around the block and back to the driveway, my mother was leaning against the car, waiting.

“So?”

“They don’t work,” I said.

My Zips spent the rest of their short life in the Closet of Effective Marketing and Irreconcilable Dreams.

Since then I have experienced a complex relationship with running.

I tried running away from home. I ran toward the bus on the first day of grade school. I ran around in circles for High School Track and Field. I ran through forests and streams on the Cross Country team. I have run toward women, sprinted past them and scrambled frantically away. Running has been a significant part of the journey, any way you scissor-kick it.

Yet, always, the process of running; the thrill, ecstasy, passion and perspiration has been visited by the Wall. The voice of negativity and reason, low self esteem and broken records; my Wall is the accumulated shadow for all of my life’s great accomplishments, lurking…prowling…waiting to pounce on the first sign of false hope, misguided focus and lactic acid.

So, why do I continue to run? Through injuries and shin splints, muffin tops and fat tires…? Why do I accept facing the Wall every time I strap on my Nike Plus and unleash the hip hop?

There’s something about running that is more integral a part of me than the feet I use to run with because it demands a connection between my heart, mind and body. I must not only get past the pain and just plow through the Wall, I must uncover the joy of feeling my fullness, my wholeness, my whooshing being, in dialogue with the world around me.

In truth, I have lived the greater part of my life living on the Wall, whooshing back and forth between ecstasy and disaster, optimism and pessimism, trust and disgust.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

How do you switch gears from a long day at work to decompressing and rejuvenating  time?

I have struggled with this for most of the past 15 years and it is truly an ongoing challenge. Spawned from two intense workaholics, I have found that  resisting the proclivity toward my own workaholism is akin to willing my large Jewish nose to somehow morph into a little button thing. Not going to happen!

One thing i have found, however, is that when I come home from the primary job of counseling 8-12 clients per day at my private psychotherapy office, I need a drastic game change. What works for me is that within 2 minutes of my being home, I strip. Totally. I drop my pants to the floor, fling my shirt off and most often, yank the boxers off as well. Oftentimes this is achieved before my wife makes it down the hallway to greet me and her darling expression is the same each time: “Honey, you lost your clothes!”

Because the work I do can be very intense and it is sometimes challenging not to carry the traumas of clients home with me, I find that a literal shedding of the day is a very useful tool when it comes to reclaiming the peace of self that doesn’t simply come with the mantle of professional psychology.

While I might check emails, monitor tweets and statuses, and even do some light marketing once I’m stripped down, I find the change in my uniform to be a very effective way to slow things down. Think of those massive gravel turn-offs for 18-wheelers who can’t stop as they are barreling down a big mountain. They turn off onto these run-away truck routes and eventually the thick gravel just slows them to a stop. Yeah, think of that. It is a much better image than thinking of me in my birthday suit sitting in the Aeron at my I-Mac!

All the best,
Jeffrey