Running is stupid. I’m not a good runner. I’m slow, and it’s tiring. But there’s something about running that’s slightly addictive. Preparing for a race. Achieving a goal. These are things that can give you a sense of accomplishment. It’s almost worth the sweat and blisters. Almost.
As I stood at the starting line of Madrid’s “Ibercaja Madrid Corre por Madrid” 10km race on September 15th , I felt a mix of anxiety and determination. How did I get here? It wasn’t just about the physical journey, but a series of small changes that began with a visit from old friends.
A Wake-Up Call in Sevilla and San Sebastian
It started when my friends Jamie and Hunter visited Spain in early June. Our first stop was Sevilla, where the heat was as oppressive as my work-related stress. The train ride from Madrid was a blur of laptop screens, spilled coffee, and anxiety about a webinar I needed to host as soon as we arrived. So much for vacation mode.
We stayed at Hotel Becquer, though the significance of the name was lost on me at the time. What wasn’t lost on me was the blessed rooftop pool. In the 100-degree heat, it became our sanctuary. Jamie and Hunter lounged by the pool, soaking in the postcard-perfect view of the cathedral, while I flirted with the rooftop bartender named Pablo.
Despite my preoccupation with work, Jamie and Hunter’s enthusiasm was infectious. We explored the Alcázar, its intricate Islamic architecture a stark contrast to the digital world I’d been buried in. In the Plaza de España, we marveled at the colorful tiles representing different provinces of Spain. I remember thinking how little I knew about the country I was living in.
One morning, Jamie and Hunter decided to go on a bike tour of the city. I can’t ride a bike, but instead of finding an alternative activity for myself, I chose to sleep in. It was partly exhaustion, partly a lack of initiative to explore on my own. When they returned, bubbling with excitement about hidden corners of Sevilla they’d discovered and their analysis of their tour group, I felt a pang of regret. It was a stark reminder of how much I was missing by not pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
From Sevilla’s scorching embrace, we flew to San Sebastián, or Donostia in Basque. The cool northern air was a welcome change, as was the shift in pace. Our hotel, the Hotel de Londres y de Inglaterra, was like stepping into a time capsule of old-world glamour.
Jamie, ever the culinary adventurer, had booked us on a pintxo tour. We hopped from bar to bar, sampling bite-sized pieces of culinary art. There was the classic Gilda – a skewer of anchovy, olive, and pickled pepper – a perfect balance of salt, brine, and heat. We savored txangurro, a rich spider crab gratin that embodied the flavors of the Basque coastline. The gambas, succulent grilled shrimp, were a reminder of the sea’s bounty.
In another bar, we tasted bacalao, salt cod prepared with such delicacy it melted on the tongue. The carrillera de ternera, veal cheeks braised to tender perfection, barely needed chewing. And just when we thought we couldn’t eat another bite, a slice of creamy, indulgent cheesecake proved us wrong.
As I watched Jamie and Hunter savor each bite and moment, I realized how much I’d been missing by always being “on.” They were fully present, exclaiming over flavors, chatting with locals despite the language barrier, and soaking in the atmosphere of each bar. I, on the other hand, found myself thinking about what was happening at work.
We hiked up Monte Urgull, the steep climb leaving us breathless but rewarded with panoramic views of the bay. At the summit, beneath the statue of Christ, we found a restaurant and we enjoyed some Tinto de Verano’s. It was at that moment where I finally was able to relax and be present with my friends.
Our last night in San Sebastian, we stumbled upon an underground casino. The thrill of the unexpected discovery, the shared laughter as we fumbled with unfamiliar game rules, the way time seemed to slip away unnoticed – it was everything my life in Madrid hadn’t been.
Their visit was a gentle nudge, a reminder of a world beyond spreadsheets and deadlines. They didn’t lecture me about work-life balance, but their actions spoke volumes. I began to see how my all-work-no-play attitude was robbing me of experiences, of connections, of the very reason I had moved to Spain in the first place.
Stumbling Towards Change
After they left, I felt a bit lost. Their visit had shown me a glimpse of a different way to live, but old habits die hard. Still, I decided to try something new.
On a whim, I joined a fencing class. My instructor, Alicia, was from the Argentine fencing team, training in Madrid. She didn’t speak English, which made for some comedic moments as I tried to follow her rapid-fire Spanish instructions.
There was a group of older men who trained at the same time. They were friendly and chatty with me, their patience with my broken Spanish touching. But the moment they faced each other for a bout, they transformed into fierce competitors. It was both amusing and inspiring to watch.
I also signed up for an art class. The teacher, Fernando, also didn’t speak English. My first attempt at drawing a horse looked more like a lopsided dog. But Fernando was kind, and the quiet of the studio was soothing. I found myself looking forward to these evenings where I could just focus on putting pencil to paper, even if the results were far from masterpieces.
Feeling bold, I joined an LGBT swimming group. We meet on Friday nights, and afterwards we go for Chinese food. Again, nobody speaks English. I typically sit there, understanding maybe one word in ten, but somehow feeling more connected to Madrid than I had in months of working long hours.
An Unexpected Find
It was during one of my aimless walks through my barrio that I stumbled upon a small bookstore. It operated on donations, shelves crammed with an eclectic mix of books. That’s where I found “The Crackling Sun,” an introduction to Spanish poetry featuring Vicente Aleixandre.
I’m no literary scholar, but there was something in Aleixandre’s words that resonated with me. Maybe it was the way he talked about hidden rivers suddenly bursting to the surface. It felt like an apt metaphor for the changes I was experiencing.
As I read more, I discovered other poets like Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer and Rubén DarÃo. I won’t pretend I understood everything, but their words gave me a new lens through which to view my experiences in Spain.
The Race: A Personal Challenge
Which brings me back to the starting line of the Madrid 10km race. I wasn’t aiming to break any records. This was about proving something to myself.
As I ran past landmarks like Puerta del Sol and the Royal Palace, I thought about the past few months. The fumbling attempts at fencing, the badly drawn sketches, the evenings of linguistic confusion at swim meets and Chinese restaurants. None of these experiences had transformed me into a worldly sophisticate, but they had shifted something inside me.
I crossed the finish line in 56 minutes and 40 seconds. Not fast by any means, but I finished. As I collected my medal, I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of how Alicia would probably tell me my “advance” needed work, both in fencing and in life.
Small Steps, New Perspective
I’m still not great at work-life balance. I still stress too much and work too hard. But now, at least, I’m trying. I’m learning that life isn’t about grand transformations, but about small steps and gradual shifts.
In the words of Bécquer, which I now appreciate a bit more
“Por una mirada, un mundo; por una sonrisa, un cielo; por un beso… yo no sé qué te diera por un beso!”
(“For a glance, a world; for a smile, a heaven; for a kiss… I don’t know what I would give for a kiss!”)
Or in my case, for the satisfaction of finishing a race, for the laughter shared with new friends despite language barriers, for the quiet joy of creating something, even if it’s just a wonky sketch of a horse.
Running may be stupid, but like awkward fencing lunges and bad drawings, it’s a step towards something. It’s about setting small goals, pushing through discomfort, and finding moments of joy in the journey. And that, I’m learning, is worth every blister and every drop of sweat.
