Why Ask Why?
Cracking Whys #0 & #∞
Hello. The post I intended to write was about chasing our limits. It was to be the first in an n-part series of essays, each exploring a different reason behind doing difficult things voluntarily. The introduction was entitled “Why ask why?” and it kept refusing to be boiled down to a few lines. So the post I ended up writing instead is about that—the need to know our reasons; this is the series’ preface as it just now came to be.
And this is also its conclusion as it was always going to be. Whenever the series happens to end, it will end the same way: with a ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and a cut to black. Because there will always be those whys that elude comprehension. The ending, much like the beginning, is already set in stone.
The middle, on the other hand, will stretch indefinitely to accommodate however many whys I may have or come to have. To hell with conventional linearity, I say.
This is the zeroth and final (but not last) in a series of posts exploring the whys of ultrarunning—you know, those whys everybody says are so important to have. Because it makes us all look crazy if I don’t have a good answer as to why I, we, anybody would choose to endure *gestures at trailside emotional breakdown that only slightly masks the pain that has permeated every part of my body*.
Post #1 is about chasing our limits, how unexpectedly wonderful they are, and what we may find when we reach them. The second post is about success and the value of effort.
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While by no means exclusive to ultrarunning, the why is certainly made unique by the specific set of challenges the sport presents. It’s an interesting concept (and not only because it sounds like a question but it’s really an answer): The why is the reason behind attempting this difficult thing, as well as the drive to continue when the difficult thing starts to seem impossible; but then it’s also the virtue or ideal that ultimately renders the difficult or impossible thing far less significant. And, of course, it’s widely and enthusiastically celebrated among ultrarunners as the powerful motivator it can be.
My own feelings toward the why are somewhat reserved. That is, I don’t oppose the concept itself (it’s as opposable as a dog’s thumb), but am rather underwhelmed by some of the aspects of how we interpret it. When people talk about the importance of defining our why, it sounds equally like a brilliant idea and a hackneyed ideology, and I always feel not entirely sold on it. I mean, I get it. I just… have questions.
Not least of which is how having a why differs from defining our why differs from understanding the why—and what the implications of those differences are.
While I believe a little skepticism is healthy, I also recognize that I’ve failed to give the notion a fair shake—which is why I’m writing this (that, and sheer curiosity).
So, in this post, rather than praising Its Royal Whyness, I’m going to question and possibly even politely disagree with it here and there. Please only throw food at me that’s not past its expiration date, thank you.
having a why: on purpose, with purpose
In the context of ultramarathon training and racing, along with its generally agreed-upon synonymity with “inspiration” and “purpose,” the why often takes on an undertone of ergogenic aid. Admittedly, having a strong purpose is among the most easily defensible performance enhancers one can bring to a race. It’s right up there with getting enough sleep and actually training for the thing. So, when it comes to running stupidly long distances, the prevailing view on whys is that we should definitely have them.
That’s easy enough with the outcome-oriented and the seemingly superficial reasons, such as time goals or material rewards. I call these “small-fry whys.” Now, these are not usually regarded as “real” whys, and they’re not the subject of this writing. Still, a case could be made for their pertinence, so allow me just this brief parenthetical:
Extrinsic motivation is not a bad thing. Goals and outcomes are often dismissed as shallow and silly reasons for running ultramarathons, but even if that’s true, I think it’s a mistake to assume it makes them invalid as well. Not every race is an internal battle of morals that demands I call upon my most virtuous beliefs holding my very soul together. It’s just running—in the grand scheme of things, itself somewhat shallow and silly. One might even say the reward fits the act rewarded: Sometimes a “shallow” goal, such as a potential PR, is enough to get me through a challenging but ultimately self-created and relatively safe ordeal. Or, indeed, through days and days of training.
And if that PR slips away, it’s a good opportunity for me to check my privilege and deal with it™ because, again, it’s just running. There are bigger problems out there. Plus, whatever my reasons for running ultramarathons, “I’ll always get what I want” is not among them—nor has it been anybody’s reason, ever, in the entire history of the sport.
Now, on to the big-fry whys.
“Just running” it may objectively be, but we’re seldom objective when it comes to our favorite activities. And I don’t know whether the deep, meaningful whys precede our participation in ultrarunning, or it’s in ultrarunning that we stumble upon them for the first time; most likely, it’s a little of both. I do know that they are spun from the same fiber as our subjective perception of ultrarunning—all of it threaded into our general conception of the world. All of it uniquely, dearly ours.
I love this sport, and I take pride in our shared desire to elevate its execution to such high station that it greatly transcends the mere act of running. I admire those who have their whys figured out, and I never tire of hearing about the triumph of purpose over hardship. It brings me joy to see there’s so much meaning in our sport.
And yet I struggle with my own whys. Not with the shallow and silly but with the deep and meaningful. And not with having them but with the need to define them. There’s something about it that makes me question the usefulness of such definitions, as they often end up feeling… forced. Filtered. Fabricated. And—when they start to sound like mere devices to use for finishing/competitive advantage in a footrace—oddly transactional.
defining our why: how to and what for
It’s safe to say it’s not just randomly that we repeatedly find ourselves at the start line of a 50-, 100-, 200-mile race. It’s even less random that we repeatedly find ourselves at the finish.
It being extremely doubtful that every time the reason is a particular outcome or reward, one might find oneself fed up with epistemic ambivalence and compelled to discover one’s deeper reasons—assuming one has never really thought about them despite everybody and their mother insisting that one ought to.
The first question that comes to mind is: How do I do that? Seriously, what is the step-by-step process? Absent a why-finding manual, I suppose I could try to intuitively derive some of my reasons from what I know about myself and my behavior outside of running. But that seems an arbitrary and potentially highly inaccurate method. Honestly, the results will probably reflect a perception of myself that’s more flattering than the objective truth. We all wish for our reasons to be good reasons.
A better approach, I think, is through an ingenious technique used by three-year-olds all over the world since time immemorial: the infinitely regressive why. As grownups, we don’t do this as often, which is a shame if you ask me.
It works like this: We ask why anything whatever, and get an answer (or in this case, give the answer ourselves). Then we ask why that answer. Each reason is predicated on another. If, for example, we run because it makes us feel good, why does it feel good? If it’s because it’s challenging, why do we enjoy being challenged? And so on. We continue going further back in this fashion until we arrive at the right answer (preferably before we get to the Big Bang—although that is technically the ultimate reason why any of us does anything).
“But what constitutes a ‘right’ answer?” you ask. Excellent question. I believe our true whys are the ones we can feel.
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We feel an emotional connection to our whys because they’re an indelible part of us. It’s what makes them so powerful: They are who we are. They’re not a pair of glasses that we can put on and take off at will, but are our own eyes through which we see the world with all the adversity and opportunities we encounter in it.
There’s nothing behind running ultramarathons that doesn’t already impact every other aspect of our life. Our whys influence all our decision-making. The reasons why we do difficult things are the very same reasons why we do easy things, and moderate things, and generally all things. (It’s quite a delicious irony that they are, therefore, also the reasons why we’re motivated by particular “shallow” goals.)
Our why is our way—of being, of doing, of enjoying, of enduring.
So then the next question becomes: If our whys are who we are, if they’re driving our behavior, does it matter at all whether or not we know what they are? Does the definition change the thing being defined? Does it change anything, does it provide more autonomy than we already had?
The thinking person’s response would be “yes,” “quite possibly,” and “yes”; that we should always strive to know; that to understand our power—our why—is to wield it more skillfully. The thinking person would be correct, if somewhat preachy. We should try to understand what drives us. It’s interpretation added to sensation—a superior mode of perception and awareness.
And so the final question is the most important: Does defining our why mean we actually understand it?
understanding the why: now we’re asking
It does not, necessarily, mean that. As Richard Feynman once said about that bird of his, the name of which he knew in several languages yet knew nothing about the bird itself: “[there’s a] difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something.”1 (I love quoting Feynman. It’s hard to disagree with somebody who’s a Nobel Prize winner famously curious about everything.)
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I admit that what I know about my reasons for running is only that which I’ve no choice but to know—because my brain talks—and it is minimal. And yet, my training and racing don’t seem to have suffered from my inexpiable negligence. Not that I’ve expected to burst into flames or anything, but some kind of repercussions would’ve been an intimation of, as it were, the error of my ways.
I am, instead, quite happy with my running. It’s often the highlight of my day, and every single race I’ve done has been a celebration, even when I’ve struggled. I’m sure I have some whys making all this possible, but I have them sort of the way I have a heartbeat: I’m out of touch with them, even though I can hear them if I’m really quiet.
Needless to say, whenever I’m trying to get myself out of whatever I’ve gotten myself into, reciting my whys out loud is not my strategy of choice. What does work, has always worked, and I will forever trust to work, is to direct my mind toward the solid and the tangible: the whats, the hows, the right-nows:
Instead of remembering my why, I remember my strength. That is, I remember my training. It’s hard to disagree with training (it’s like Richard Feynman that way). Instead of motivation, it’s proof.
Instead of remembering my why, I remember that motivation follows action. Sometimes the best thing to do is put my head down and get on with it. Instead of inspiration, it’s getting some control back.
Instead of remembering my why, I remind myself that I am, in fact, okay. Instead of emotion, it’s reason. It helps to also remember to eat and hydrate so I can continue to be okay.
If all else fails, I remind myself that it’s just running. Instead of purpose, it’s perspective.
Useful stuff indeed, at least during a race or perhaps a difficult workout. “What about the rest of life?” you might ask, and once again, you would be posing an excellent question. After all, I did argue that our whys represent who we are in general. So now I’ll also argue that “the rest of life” is precisely where understanding them has the most value.
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There are two ways to ask about reasons: “Why do you…?” and “What makes you…?”. The answer might be virtually the same (e.g., for running, “to find some peace” versus “my hectic life”), but there’s a world of difference between the questions. The first implies agency, the second is wildly deterministic; the first we can learn from, the second has zero epistemic value.
To answer the first question, we need true understanding. To answer the second, we need only a gut feeling, a hunch.
I would like to be able to answer the first question. So I very much want to understand my whys. And defining them is the first step.
The second step is a whole journey. Understanding our whys is, I’d argue, hard work. It’s not enough to feel them or put a name to each. We have to get really honest and often uncomfortable with ourselves to truly understand why we are the way we are, and why we do the things we do. Who knows, perhaps if I put in the work, reciting my whys in the middle of a race would work better than any of those things from the list above.
Hence, this here empty bucket I’m dangling above the echoey depths of the well full of meaning and purpose. (The perfect metaphor for the why doesn’t exi—)
I think I will enjoy learning about my whys as I put them into words one by one. But to bring them out in the light and expose them to my conscious mind is an irreversible action, so I want to do it on my own terms. I will remain a curious skeptic as I question the almighty why because “I’d rather have questions that can’t be answered than answers that can’t be questioned” (Feynman again, supposedly).
Speaking of questions that can’t be answered.
the undefinable whys: for no fathomable reason
Hello. This is the final part of this series: its conclusion. What a journey it has been, presumably. Thank you for coming with me. As a reward, here is this Reading Recommendation in a Single Quotation with No Further Explanation:
❝Because we know other people only from the outside, we assume they can be known from the outside; we think we can understand people reasonably well based solely on their words and deeds. At the same time, because we know ourselves from the inside, we think we can only be known from the inside.
—Kathryn Schulz, Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margin of Error
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Now that I've written down all of my whys, it suddenly dawns on me that I haven’t.
I remember it as if it were earlier today that I started writing about the why, from its possession through its definition to its understanding; how I wanted to claim agency over my whys, to be able to declare why I do, rather than sheepishly confess what makes me do.
But, of course, I can never understand everything, even the things I know to be true. Along with “Why do you…?” there will always be a “What makes you…?” and sometimes the answer is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
There is research suggesting that a goal could be set, pursued, and achieved entirely without conscious intervention (such as via exposure to particular stimuli). Such goals, one study argues, “will cause the same attention to and processing of goal-relevant environmental information and show the same qualities of persistence over time toward the desired end state, and of overcoming obstacles in the way, as will consciously set goals.”2 In other words, we are as engaged and as efficient in pursuing a nonconsciously set goal as a consciously set one.
I’d be lying if I said the existence of unconscious motivations didn’t put me on tenterhooks. Because what if they are bad motivations? I don’t wish to open a philosophical can of worms here, but bad is bad. And bad is worse when we can’t be made aware of it, as we are extremely good at rationalizing and justifying our behavior. It is because of such unconscious influences that understanding the understandable feels even more crucial.
Stepping swiftly away from the ethical paranoia, when it comes to reasons for enjoying stuff, this ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ is far from humanity’s only ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Take music, for example. We don’t quite understand the mechanisms behind enjoying it,3 yet here we are, singing along to our favorite song. Perhaps physical activity is how emotions move, like music is how emotions sound. To be sure, we create similarly subjective meanings out of both, deriving pleasure (and sometimes pain) from this creation.
Or perhaps there are less poetic reasons why we run long distances, such as a double-helical legacy left to us by our less sedentary ancestors (the ones who survived long enough to pass on their genes must’ve been the better athletes—survival was of the fittest back then).
Or, there could be reasons that would make a poet rip her Moleskine in half in a fit of existential despair: Perhaps we’re drawn to the extremes simply because our daily life is short on excitement, and ultrarunning is better than (other) drugs.
I could keep guessing but, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
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Richard P. Feynman and Ralph Leighton, “The Making of a Scientist,” in “What Do You Care What Other People Think?”: Further Adventures of a Curious Character (S.I: W. W. Norton & Company, 2011), Adobe Digital Editions EPUB.
John A. Bargh et al., “The Automated Will: Nonconscious Activation and Pursuit of Behavioral Goals,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 81, no. 6 (December 2001): 1014–27, https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.81.6.1014.
Roger Mathew Grant, “Musical Pleasures,” Aeon, September 4, 2018, https://aeon.co/essays/its-hard-to-know-why-music-gives-pleasure-is-that-the-point.