Typically, the very first thing we would do on those
agonizing August days would be running the fastest mile we could. While my teammates would usually
average a 7- or 8-minute/mile pace, I struggled to finish in under ten minutes
despite trying my very hardest and feeling like I might keel over after
crossing the finish line. The
coach typically dictated that anyone who couldn’t meet the President’s Physical
Fitness Test passing time on the mile would be required to run it again at the
end of practice, which itself consisted of at least two hours of jumping,
hitting, lateral movement drills, and a series of grueling hill sprint
repeats. So, despite being a healthy
weight and very active, I would always be running that second mile while nearly
everyone else got to go home to their showers and relaxing summer
afternoons. Unsurprisingly, I
never remember my time improving from the beginning to the end of practice--and it certainly would never have crossed my mind to go running on my own time to try to improve.
In college, I hit the gym hard and found I really enjoyed
lifting weights. Apparently my
body composition was more designed for feats of brute strength than cardio
endurance. So, I got stronger but
avoided running whenever possible—until senior year. For some reason, I determined then that I would skip
desserts and, whenever I felt like taking a nap (which was often!), I would go
running instead. No matter the
temperature, out I would go, timing myself on my digital Timex wristwatch on
the route I had measured out with my car, this being at least five years before
ubiquitous GPS devices or IPods. I
think I jogged approximately 1 ½ miles each time, so no great distance, but,
thanks to my 21-year-old metabolism, I found my physique trimming down quite a
bit. My roommate would often go
for three-mile runs, which seemed preposterous to me at the time.
Once out of college, I moved to Charlottesville, Virginia
and would run for one or two miles as the spirit moved me, which was
irregularly and fairly infrequently.
My life was consumed with adjusting to being a beginner teacher,
directing the theatre and speech programs, and working on my Master’s degree.
During my last year south of the Mason-Dixon, my roommate and co-worker Liz and
I signed up to run a 5K together.
It seemed daunting, and I was woefully ill-equipped to design a proper
training program for myself. I
would use the elliptical at our apartment complex’s fitness room regularly and
went for a few trail runs, but that first 5K truly seemed like a marathon to
me. I think my pace was over a
13-minute mile, and I remember a co-worker who was in her last trimester of
pregnancy putting me to shame. I
thought that would be my last 5K, and certainly the concept of being a “runner”
was so foreign. I was just a
random schlub who had run a single race—and pretty poorly at that. “If I can’t do very well at the prime
age of 26, when would I possibly be better?” I thought to myself.
Once I moved to Pennsylvania, I was back to my occasional
leisurely runs of about two miles each.
My pace remained pathetic and my schedule haphazard, so the thought of
running a race never even tripped across my radar. After I got married and put on the most weight in a single
year that I ever had (while my husband lost about the same amount, but that’s a
story for another time), I finally decided I needed to join a gym and get
committed to fitness. So, in
addition to lifting weights, I worked up to running about thirty minutes on the
treadmill several times each week.
My pace improved, and I started thinking about races. Running my next 5K, four years after
that pathetic Charlottesville showing, became my goal. I signed up with my friend Carolyn and
ran, my pace barely improving from that first race. I remember scoffing when a
stranger we encountered afterwards said, “You’re running 5Ks now, but soon you’ll
want to do a 10K, and then a half marathon.” I was disappointed but determined and signed up for another 5K,
and my pace improved slightly. I
continued to be discouraged when people who hadn’t trained at all could show up
and beat me, but I held on to hopes for improvement. A few months after that
racing season ended, my gym unexpectedly closed. And then I found out I was pregnant.
Chalfont 5K, 2009
Early in my pregnancy, I was determined to run until I
couldn’t. Or, shockingly, until I
found out I was having twins, started getting contractions less than halfway
through the pregnancy, and the doctors told me not to push myself
physically. Then, when the kids
were born, I spent much of the next two years in a cloud of exhaustion as I
nursed them and tried to keep them clean, safe, and well-fed. Though I was able to lose most of my baby
weight, my pre-baby shape was a distant memory. Sometime during the summer of 2013, when the kids were 2 ½,
I decided the era of Slug Mom must come to an end. Knowing that consistency in going to a gym would be
logistically nigh impossible with two toddlers and a full-time job, I got
myself an iPhone, downloaded the Couch-to-5K App, signed up for the Ocean City
5K in a few months, laced up my sneakers, stepped out the front door, and away
I went. That first “run,”
which required actual running in intervals of only a few minutes at a time, was
more challenging than expected, but I faithfully worked my way through the
program and watched my stamina improve.
I didn’t meet my lofty goals that first race, but it was a start, and I
would run three or four more 5Ks through the course of the year that
followed. I was still a
fair-weather runner without a treadmill, so I lost out on a lot of training
hours by staying in on days it was rainy or snowy or dark or too hot or too
humid or too cold. So, my time
improved, but only a little.
After Day One of Couch-to-5K
Finishing the Ocean City 5K, 2013
In May of 2014, my husband’s company had achieved a major
financial milestone and celebrated by providing a dinner party and one night’s
stay at the Ritz-Carlton in Philadelphia for each employee and a guest. The morning of check-out, I distinctly
remember looking out the window of the breakfast area and seeing the runners
come down Broad Street for the Broad Street Run, the nation’s largest 10-mile
race and “the race” to enter in Southeastern Pennsylvania. At that moment, I
decided that my pathetic 5K-running self would do that someday. When registration rolled around in
February 2015, I hadn’t been working out much at all that winter and chickened
out but then trained almost as if I would be running. This past winter, in an attempt to eliminate all excuses, I
got myself a headlamp, reflective gear, and snow trax for my shoes and
determined that only a blizzard or thick ice on the roads would keep me from my
runs. So, when lottery entry for
Broad Street came this year, I was ready.
Yesterday, in pouring rain and 40-degree temperatures,
“someday” arrived. I was joined in this adventure by two supremely encouraging
friends and exceeded my conservative goal time. Looking back on it, it seemed like an out-of-body
experience. For the most part,
despite the rain and the cold, despite the distance I had never done before, I
felt good—better even than in most 5Ks I had run. It was a memorable day, and only in the best ways. I was far from the fastest there, and
most people would be unimpressed by my pace, but it was a personal victory and
a definitive answer to my 26-year-old doubting self.
Before the race, I had been telling myself I would never run
a race of this length again. It
had been too hard, taken too much of a toll on my body. It had required twice weekly physical
therapy on my knee and many missed dinners with my family. It had demanded the most strenuous and
time-consuming training during the most stressful part of my school year; after
all, when you are a slow as I am, long runs take that much longer! And yet, in the recesses of my mind,
those areas reserved for my most impractical thoughts, I can picture myself
running down Broad Street again.
And, even though I am committed to taking this week off to heal from some
of the strain that has been affecting my body, I caught myself thinking today,
“I’d really like to go for a run.”
Waiting to start the race
Broad Street finishers, 2016
No comments:
Post a Comment