I remember the first time i ever ran 1ok (or as it was then 6.2 miles, back in the days before metric.) It must have been the early 80′s. I was young girl, full of vinegar and a desire to please my parents. To jump into their radar, a tough thing when you are the youngest child in a large family.
My mom, sister and big brother were all running the Sun Run. I brightly declared my intentions to run the race with them and bring my best friend along too. We began our vigorous training regime which included running to the elementary school around the corner and then hanging out for a couple hours and returning home declaring sweat and exhaustion and imminent victory.
Race day came and my buddy and i sprinted out of the starting block. We raced through the park and promptly looked at each other and decided on a quick walk break. “Surely”, we thought, “we must be halfway by now.” Then we saw it. The Mile 1 sign.
I always remember that moment, that feeling that i had bitten off more than i could chew. That there was no way that my body could possibly propel me forward for five more miles.
We walked most of the rest of the way until we saw we were coming around the corner to the finish line. I’m pretty sure we were tied for last place. We looked at each other and broke into a sprint. There was no way that either of us was going to be last. Onlookers laughed and cheered as we raced to the finish like our lives depended on it. In my mind this was the most important battle i had ever fought, this was my race. It was MY idea that we run the damn thing and i was going to win by not losing if it was the last thing i did.
Funnily enough i don’t remember which one of us actually lost/won. But i do think about that day often. I think about it every time i pass a mile marker in a race. In many ways i am still filled with that same feeling of dread every single time i see one.
~half marathon number five this sunday!
Pull up a chair. Drink a london fog. Outside is permanently damp and the mold from the fallen leaves makes you tired and melancholy. Sitting in your chair looking out the window for hours on end. Contemplating how strange life is.
I ran a half marathon last weekend. Four in 365 days. Running continues to be the best thing i’ve ever done. The thing that changed my life, filled me with passion and pride. Gives me the strength to wake up every morning, especially the shitty ones. I’m running another one in two weeks. I need the races right now. The feeling that i am doing something just for me. That for a few hours my world is all about me.
I sit and wonder where the years have gone and why it bothers me so much that every other commercial is an anti-aging/age-defying/erase me product. Why do my kids think it’s funny to call me old. Surely they are picking up on my own insecurities. I hate having other people take pictures of me now. I do reflect an insecurity, a disappointment in what i see.
Needs. We talk about needs all the time. I can’t seem to be the good wife. I try my hardest, i do all the things my upbringing taught me. I take care of all the household stuff, manage all the millions of kids needs. (There it is again) I put a warm dinner on the table every night, make sure homework and dishes are done and clean clothes set out for the morning. I am a perfect housewife who also happens to put a decent amount of money into the family budget.
Yet i am consistently not good enough. It weighs heavy on me this language we use to assess our lives. My kids use words like magic. They can cut each other down with a single stinging comeback. Hurt each other the way siblings do. And sometimes they say exactly the most beautiful thing you have ever heard without even knowing it. Rushing through the door after school – tired, hungry and happy – “Wow! Mom, i missed you today.”
The murmuring around the water cooler is that it’s going to be a very cold winter. “The coldest in recorded history” they say. They say some variation on this every winter and every summer, yet the years keep going by. Nothing really changes except the number of years we write down on passport applications.
I remember the first time i ever ran 1ok (or as it was then 6.2 miles, back in the days before metric.) It must have been the early 80′s. I was young girl, full of vinegar and a desire to please my parents. To jump into their radar, a tough thing when you are the youngest child in a large family.