‘Running’ for My Life
In spite of myself, I ran.
The first mile is always the toughest—foot to pavement, the brisk wind clutching at your lungs, and the voice in my head screaming, “this is stupid; let’s just go back to bed.” Then my watch notifies me that I had just passed one mile, and from there you just keep going and going and going.
Two years ago, I decided to run on a whim. I thought, “oh a marathon by 30 sounds like a fun goal,” and the next day the thought amended to “maybe a half-marathon.” It seemed like the easiest “sport” for me, not being great with teams and my hand-eye coordination being about as good as my ability to fly a plane. It was arduous at first, learning how to run (did you know there’s a proper way to run?)and even finding the right shoe (did you know that you can’t wear just any running shoe?)! I began my training by learning how to reach a mile and even then it took me twenty minutes, but I kept going. One mile became two, two become three, and eventually it became as easy as breathing.
*Cue the Rocky theme and 1980’s montage cutscene.*
My first race was a 5K—a distance I thought was an impossibility once upon a time. The morning of the race was freezing and dark—I had arrived hours too early even though there was no need to. I waited and paced, my adrenaline barely keeping me warm enough to function. By the time I corralled for the starting gun, I was ready for it to all be over—ready for a hot bath and a nap; ready for this ephemeral fad of running to pass.
Then the gun goes off, and I run. Children pass me. The elderly pass me. A dad pushing a baby in a stroller passes me. Eventually, I get into a groove but that first mile haunted me for what felt like hours. My training kicks in and that first mile becomes mile two and two becomes three and by the time I’m nearing the finish line, I feel a tear fall down my cheek—whether I was crying because I accomplished something or because I was done or because I was delusional is still to be determined.
I had no intention of training to run any farther beyond a 5K. Three miles, by any measure of the human body, is a feat in and of itself. But finishing that made me feel like I was on top of the world; like I could do anything! And so, at the encouragement (one may also say at his behest) of my friend Joey, I signed up for a half-marathon in Rehoboth, DE.
Training for a 5K was nothing compared to a half-marathon. Doing the math, it’s more than just doing four 5Ks plus a mile (even that sounds daunting). It’s finding the energy to even achieve six miles; it’s making sure you have water when you need it; it’s making sure your knee doesn’t betray you at some point and set back weeks of progress; it’s willing yourself to give up your Sunday mornings to run for ninety minutes and finally hit that momentous ten mile goal.
I thought about quitting for weeks.
The days leading up to the half-marathon were filled with dread. If i’m being honest, I was hoping i’d twist my ankle just DAYS before to get out of the race. Fortunately (unfortunately?) no such thing happened. Learning from the morning of my 5K race and following the lead of my friends, we got to the starting line just minutes before the start. I put my headphones in and let the noise around me disappear while I jumped up and down in a sea of strangers, hoping to just finish. Before I could even move to corral, the crowd begins to run and I snap back to reality.
As always, the first mile was the worst, why I chose Adele’s ‘Hold On’ as my starting song felt like the motivational choice at the time, but with its slow tempo and mellow build up, I was worst off for it. I thought to myself, “all you have to do is finish. Forget the people; forget the time; just finish.” Each foot moved in front of the other and the miles seemed to fly by. At every moment I could, I waved at my friends as they passed me on the route—an activity that kept my mind busy as it pushed through the fact that I was only at mile five of thirteen.
I tried to recall tactics I read online about mentally getting through the race:
— Try to dedicate every mile to someone (I lost count around ten)
— Try to stick to a mantra (‘Fucking finish’ wasn’t super encouraging around mile eight)
— Try to have fun (While I love running, I wouldn’t classify it as “fun”)
Apparently, the trick to getting through the half-marathon is to list through the entire list of tactics and by the time you’re done, you’re nearing mile ten.
There are two small things that helped me—one was knowing that my friends were going through the same thing, at the same time and knowing that they’d be there at the finish line helped me more than any “tip” an online source could ever give me. The second?
Spite.
In spite of myself, I ran and ran and ran until I saw the thirteenth and final marker. I took my headphones out and let in the cool beach wind and the bells and cheers from the strangers on either side of the partitions. I saw my friends cheering and screaming at me as I just about reached the end. I smacked my feet against the ground, propelling myself farther and farther until finally—I finished. I threw my fists into the air and I could feel electricity run through my veins and I thought that I had died. That the past two hours didn’t happen. But it did and there’s proof. In spite of myself, I kept pushing to finish. In spite of myself, I let my mind run rampant, bouncing off every possible thought and idea as I ran through a terrain I knew nothing about.
In spite of myself, I did what I knew I could do.
