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I have a journalist friend who has taken a new job as an editor of a magazine. It’s a dream
job for him. But he has paid an occupational price. Before becoming editor, he was in
shape, fit, running daily, with weekend runs of up to 20 miles. He meticulously kept a
daily log. He qualified for the Boston Marathon. He recorded his resting pulse upon waking
up. He proudly stepped on the bathroom scale each morning. His body fat was under ten
percent.
That was eight months ago. And that was 20 pounds ago. These days, my friend, who is
stressed out from the daily grind of producing a magazine, can’t seem to summon the energy
to work out, to do the things he once loved with a passion. He’s at an all-time high in
weight.
On Christmas Break, he flew home to visit his family. Away from the stress and pressure of
work, he began to run again. A few miles every day. He felt alive and energized. Then he
returned to work and his running stopped. He hasn’t run since.
I empathize with my friend. I have been there. In fact, I am still there. The problem is
simple: when our own emotional well-being is like a starter’s pistol that can’t fire,
almost nothing can be done to get the body in motion. Yet, when the body does get going,
when it does experience the endorphin highs of a good, lung-sapping run, it’s as if the
brain has flipped a switch. What was once dark becomes light.
Motivation is a tricky, illusive subject. It can’t be quantified like a person’s weight,
cholesterol level, or maximum heart rate. Sports psychologists will talk and write about
motivation, citing studies and interviews, but what it really distills down to is that for
each person it’s different, a mysterious alchemy of physiology and psychology. It defies
calibration. It exists in a fluid state governed by laws of inertia.
The greatest endurance athletes, for example, have an amazing tolerance for pain. They can
push themselves far beyond the red-line danger mark. How? Or why? Scientists still don’t
know.
Think about this: the recent winner of the Chicago Marathon basically ran 26 consecutive
sub-five-minute miles. I don’t know about you, but even when I’m in great shape, I don’t
run a sub-five-minute mile. (I make do with 6:30). The marathon winner surely must have
been hurting, his lungs and limbs surely must have been on fire, but he kept going and he
kept going strong.
Of course, he had trained and was a world-class athlete. But how did he arrive at that
lofty level? How come we all can’t reach this level of athletic excellence? Or were we not
all born equal? What happens afterwards—is this a consequence of nature or nurture? Or, is
what propels one forward into the disciplined land of workouts, training, and unflagging
loyalty to self-sacrifice and commitment, a direct outgrowth of that ineffable entity
called personal motivation?
In our incentive-based culture, is it possible to package motivation? Though we cherish
its successful by-products—the gym-toned body, the age-group winning time in the local
10K, the flat stomach—we often need to employ other people to become motivated. That
"other" is often the personal trainer, who is really a personal motivator. Who does the
training? You do. Who does the motivating? You both do!
Perhaps in the not too distant high-tech future, a device will be developed called the
Motivational Chip that can be implanted into our body. It will be like having your high
school gym coach always yelling in your ear to swim more laps or run more
bleachers.
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