There’s Nothing Punk About Running There’s Nothing Punk About Running

There are no rules in running because running has no rules. You can run on the road, the trail, the track, the treadmill, or on a flight to Singapore (ask Max), and you can run as fast or slow as you want, and you can wear whatever shoes you want—or you can wear no shoes at all like a dirty, shit-stinkin’ sasquatch. The only real rule of running is the one that the police (typical) came up with: you must not run in the nude. 

But even then, there’s an annual marathon in Finland where everyone races in their birthday suit; it’s called Nakukymppi, and it’s a predominantly putty-colored waking nightmare. So, if indecent exposure is your thing—get in there, you freak. But the point I’m making is this: You can run anywhere and everywhere and wear whatever you want. No one can stop you. You’re an outsider! Running has no rules, and that equals Punk.

Ugly

Punk is ugly. It’s raw, it’s sweaty, and sometimes there’s blood. Yuck. That's ugly. And guess what? Running isn’t about looking good, either. Sure, you might check yourself in the mirror right before you leave the house and think, ‘Not bad, Chad,’ but if you haven’t transformed into a clump of deep-fried dog shit by the time you get back, you’re doing it wrong. Also, like the late, great G.G. Allin, runners are prepared to drop trou and defecate anywhere. That’s ugly—that’s punk. 

And like G.G. Allin, runners end up getting spooky tattoos, assaulting strangers, and spending a lot of time in jail. Hmm. Maybe not, but let’s face it, you’re still a goddamn degenerate, no matter how many local legends you got. I’m being a silly goose, of course, but the point I’m making is this: Running aint about being pretty—it’s about feeling alive and knowing where all the public toilets and hedges are. 

DIY 

Fuck gym memberships, personal trainers, and the approval of your peers—Do It Yourself. Lace up and hit the pavement. Punk is all about telling the gatekeepers where they can stick their precious gate keys (up their bottoms) but get this: running doesn’t even have gatekeepers to be rude to in the first place. It’s the most accessible activity in the world, and you don’t need permission or an invitation to get started—you just run! As Uncle Hank said in this issue’s interview, you don’t wait for permission—YOU BECOME THE PERMISSION. 

And anyway, you’ll be standing still for the rest of your life if you’re waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay to go for a run, so just RUN. And while you’re at it, why not adopt the DIY spirit of Punk and do something cool, like start a run club, organize a race, or whatever—just do something yourself. Big Herm did, and look at him—he got a full page in this mag!

Community & Individuality  

Like the punk scene, the running scene is both communal and fiercely independent. For example, a punk might choose to go it alone, stalking the mean streets with a weird haircut and trench coat, convincing no one but himself that he is broody and interesting. Similarly, a runner may prefer to run by herself because that’s just how she prefers it. 

Then, of course, there are groups of punks who decide to break into unoccupied residences and live there rent-free, spray-painting obscenities on the walls, urinating in the corners, and copulating under filthy blankets. In the same way, some runners will start run clubs where groups of like-minded folks can get together to run and celebrate being fit and happy. It’s basically the same, except one has hepatitis. 

Expectorating

Early punk shows were characterized by an enormous amount of spitting from the audience. While Tom Jones was being buried in a hail of panties, poor old Johnny Rotten was on the receiving end of a whole lotta mucous and saliva. This is disgusting. Spitting is disgusting. 

But if you’re not spitting at least once on your run to clear your airways, you must be walking. Are you walking? Don’t walk. Run. It’s way better. And if you do choose to run, and you feel the need to expectorate like a filthy animal, be sure to do it when no one is looking and aim for the base of a tree where no one can step in it. Also, forcefully ejecting mucous from a single nostril (Snot Rocketing) is never acceptable. Ever. But yeah, running and punk equals a bit of spitting. Next!

Self-Expression

Punk is all about expressing yourself, projecting the real YOU out into the world and saying, ‘Hey! This is the real me, and if you don’t like it, that’s tough bananas.’ By the same token, running is a runner’s way of letting everyone know that they’re not mindless clones either. 

You might say, ‘Well, punks and runners are expressing something, but I don’t know if it’s very original. They’re both donning a uniform that signals what tribe they belong to, which is kinda the opposite of expressing yourself as an individual. For example, look at all the male runners with mustaches—does that come free with the shoes? And as for punks, well, the guy that punched you in the introduction sounds like an unimaginative cliché! I mean, really, how can you say that running and punk are forms of original self-expression? That’s just absurd.’  To which I would say, ‘Shut up,’ and then make a mental note to stop writing sentences that imagine what the reader might be thinking.

Anarchy 

Whether you’re outrunning chubby riot cops or organizing a charity run to raise awareness for police obesity, running can be a powerful form of resistance. It’s very much The Individual versus The System when it comes to running (tré punk) because you’re running in a world designed for cars and shopping and crushing ennui, and utilizing the environment for none of those things is an act of rebellion on par with burning your bra or refusing to adore Timothée Chalamet (it’s impossible, I’ve tried). 

And then there are punk-ass, anarchist runners who run in places they’re not even supposed to, like closed public parks, cemeteries, and airplanes bound for Singapore. If you’re a runner, that means you’re refusing to trudge along with the grey, faceless herd, and goddamn it, that’s punk as hell. 

Imperfectly Perfect

The original punk bands were far from perfect. In fact, many of them were shit. Similarly, there’s no such thing as a perfect runner. You could argue that runners at the elite level are pretty close to perfect, but, really, they’re not; they still have things about their form, training, and nutrition they could improve on. 

For example, look at Courtney Dauwalter: she’s the best in the world, but she’s also a candy freak, which means she is not perfect. And then there’s the fastest man in the world, Usain Bolt, and that dudes a chain-smokin’, Four Loko-chuggin’, mahjong-addicted pile of burning plastic. In punk and in running, everyone is imperfect, which actually makes it perfect. 

Search & Destroy

Lastly, Running, like Punk, is about destruction and rebirth. Punk burned down the worlds of music, fashion, art, and politics—running burnt down all that flab on your ass, allowing you to rise from those blubbery ashes like a mighty phoenix with self-respect and a decent set of pins. Running knocks you down and builds you up again, only stronger. It’s sweat, it’s tears, it’s opening your eyes each morning and saying, ‘Owwww—fuck that hurts.’ 

And in the true spirit of Punk, you’re defying expectations: no one thought for a second you were ever gonna run a half marathon in your life, let alone a full marathon, let alone a 100-miler! WHAT? You’re coloring outside the lines, and you’re refusing to drink the Kool-Aid. You are the proverbial turd in the punchbowl, my friend—so run, punk, run.