Monday, November 5, 2012

Thirteen Point One


A few weeks ago I ran the Waddell and Reed Kansas City Half-Marathon.  That sentence still has trouble falling out of my mouth:  I.  Ran.  The.  Half.  Marathon.  For those of you that know me, my previous physical accomplishments included twirling and cheerleading in high school (17 years ago for those that are counting) with an occasional Spinning or Zumba class thrown in for fun.  “Running” is usually followed by “errands” or “with scissors” depending on the day and my attitude.
 
I would hear friends talk of running, ask me to join, and I would blame my seasonal allergies, my bad knees, my general intolerance for anything that involves Lycra.  “I can’t run outside, I can’t breathe,” I would say when they would talk of lacing up a pair or tennis shoes and hitting the pavement.  I joked that I would run if something large and ferocious was after one of my kids.  If the something large and ferocious was after ME, it could just take me down, then and there.  That’s how much I detested running.

How did I get from reluctant walker to half-marathon runner?  In one word:  “tickedoffness.”  More pointedly:  my husband didn’t think I could do it.  Jim mentioned to me this past April that his company was sponsoring a 10K in September.  “Sign me up,” I said in a moment of insanity, “I’ll run it with you.” 

Fast forward to late June, when the idea of running more than a mile was completely foreign to me. 
 
 

“Hey, Jim, when am I supposed to run that 10K with you?”

“It’s in September, but I didn’t sign you up.”

“Why not?  I thought we were running together.”

“Honey, I knew you wouldn’t really do it.  I thought I would save us your entrance fee.”


 
And just like that—I was a runner. 

Ha!  I wish the transition had been that quick.  Actually, at that moment I was forced to make a choice:  agree with Jim and get comfy on the couch, or prove him wrong and lace up my shoes.  Agreeing with Jim meant owning my complacency, my lack of willpower, my chronic “tired-mom-syndrome.”  Agreeing meant admitting defeat.  Prove my husband wrong?  That’s not a choice, that’s a challenge!  I had him sign me up, and then I raced straight to the computer to Google how long a 10K really was.

6.2 miles.  Oh, Lord have mercy.  I couldn’t even run 1 mile without walking a bit.  6.2 could have been 26, it sounded so impossible.

I decided to run a mile that first week, and add a mile each week.  And since my life is crazy trying to balance my full-time job and my 3 kids’ schedules, I knew that I couldn’t run after work, that it would be too easy to be too busy.  So I got up an hour earlier each morning, which for me meant setting the alarm to go off at 4:30. 

The first week was brutal, but as my body got used to the early morning wake-up and my mind got over the insanity of getting up at such an early hour…things started to change.  I started to enjoy the time by myself, in the quiet, without anyone asking anything of me.  I enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment, knowing that by 5:30am I had checked something big off my to-do list for the day.  I liked that my mom-of-3 tummy was getting a little less sqwooshy and that even if my body size wasn’t changing all that much, my body confidence was.  I realized that through running I started to care much more about how my body moved than how it looked.

And each week I added a mile.  A couple weeks in, I got a group of therapists from my work together to run the Race for the Cure 5K.  A 5K is 3.1 miles, for those who don’t speak metric, as I don’t!  I will always remember that race.  I took off with the other runners and felt like a slow turtle, plodding along.  Jim was going to run it with me, but after about 30 seconds I gave him the “ok” to go ahead and he raced off into the crowd.  About a mile in, my lungs started to ache and my calves began to burn.  Each hill was more daunting than the next.  I didn’t even have enough energy to speed up at the finish line, and I knew at the end of the race that I would never be able to run TWO of those to make a 10K.

Until I got my official race time off the computer at home.  28 minutes.  Finished in the top 25% of women in my age group.  Finished ahead of so many girls 10 years younger than me.  And I got a little more confident, a little more competitive.  And I kept increasing my miles each week.  And by the time September rolled around I could run 7 miles.

The morning of the Plaza 10K, I was nervous.  This was the moment of truth.  The gun went off, Jim sped ahead of me and I tried to distract myself by looking at the buildings, the stores, waving at the spectators—anything to keep my mind off the fact that I was going to be running for at least an hour.  Mile 3 things started to get hard…and by Mile 4 I was in a constant battle with myself.  Just…keep…running!  I think it was about Mile 5 that I decided that I didn’t want to run any more.  Ever.  I finished in 56 minutes and though it was a good finish time, I felt let-down and defeated.  It was too hard.  I couldn’t do it.  I wasn’t really a runner.

After the race I told Jim that I wasn’t going to run any more, that I was done.  He was proud of me for keeping my commitment to the 10K and that was that.  Until the next day when I got to work.  I started to think about my “bucket list.”  About how I was closer than I had ever been, and might ever be, to running a half-marathon.  About how I might look back one day and regret not trying to go for it when it was just within reach.  About how much I WANTED to run it.  And before I could talk myself out of it, I got online and paid my fees for the half.

13.1 miles.  Up and down some of the hilliest terrain in downtown KC.  Because I wanted to.
 
I kept training, getting up every morning to run 4-5 miles before 5:30, and getting up at 6:30 on the weekends to tackle longer runs.  Jim was a great support, getting the kids ready for football games on Saturday mornings so that I could finish my runs, not complaining when the alarm in our bedroom would go off at 4:30am and I would have to turn on the light to pull on my shoes.  And even coming to my rescue when I failed to check my GPS one day on a trail run and ended up 8 miles away from where I started in Lee’s Summit, at a skateboarding park in Grandview.  Not my finest moment.

The day of the race, I woke up by myself, got dressed in the dark and left the house without waking anyone in the family.  I found my starting place alongside runners of all ages and stages.  The gun went off, and away we went—a sea of Lycra, sweat and determination.  This time the race was different.  My legs were strong and capable from the training.  My mind was focused and excited.  This was the moment that I had been working toward for months, and for the first time since the beginning of the journey, I was a RUNNER.  I had a permanent smile during the entire run, and my cheeks would burn for days after it was over.  I had never experienced a runner’s high during any of my previous runs, but instead experienced a high during the entire half-marathon.  All 2 hours, 9 minutes of that run I was overcome with pride, with gratitude and with happiness. 

And I did it all by myself.  I trained alone, I raced alone and I planned to finish alone.  But my sweet husband had other plans and surprised me at the finish line with my daughter in tow, which was a much better ending that I had planned.  To share that moment with my husband, who saw me through the entire process, and my daughter, who I hope to inspire—was priceless.

Would I do it again?  Yes, in a heartbeat.  In fact, I think I am going to try for 3 halfs next year.  And running has become so much a part of who I am that I still get up before dawn to work out the day’s “issues” over a good run.  Jim knows that I am happier if a run is either in my near past or near future.  I love it when my kids see me lace up my shoes and ask “Mommy, are you going for a run?”

What have I learned?  That anyone (even a klutzy, non-athletic couch potato like me) can run, if they decide they want to.  That sometimes the journey is as rewarding as the destination.  That just putting one foot in front of another is enough to cover new ground and reshape who you think you are.  That I like “bling” in any form, including race medals.  That 35 is not too old to take up a new hobby.  That my body can do more than I give it credit for.  That “not having enough time” is a lie I tell myself to avoid doing the things that I’d rather not do.  That crossing off “run days” on my training calendar gives me a rush no drug or drink can match.  That if it’s important I will make a way, and if not I will make an excuse.  That a “13.1” sticker on the back of my minivan is a great conversation starter.  That I am capable of so much more than I think I am.  And that I AM A RUNNER.

1 comment:

  1. Amen. Yes, yes, yes. Right there with you. Congrats, Holly! You are a Runner!

    ReplyDelete