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.