It’s Not How You Start, It’s How You Finish

I never considered myself a runner.  Yet I run.

That probably doesn’t make much sense to you.  I suppose if I run, I am, in fact, a runner. Of sorts.

The sort that gets stopped by an older couple the third time I lap them in the park. “Honey, look at you!” the older lady exclaims. “You just keep passing us.  That’s so impressive.”

“Well, to be fair, you are using a cane, but thank you nonetheless,” I think to myself. But I smile and nod politely and continue on my way.  Clearly, I don’t resemble your typical runner.  The nice lady’s surprised enthusiasm reinforces it.  So be it.

I don’t have designated running shorts or special running headphones.  I may need to invest some money in that space as I invest more time in running.  But for now, I just run.

I run to challenge myself and to get out of my comfort zone.

I run because I can, and I might not always be able to.

I run because my kids are watching.

I run because maybe I will inspire someone else who doesn’t consider themselves a runner to do the same.

I run because if I can run, maybe I can also do other hard things.

I am going to run a half marathon in January.  I never thought I would say that.  Well, I never thought I would say it and really mean it.  As in, actually-register-and-book-a-hotel-room mean it. (Yes, there are local half marathons that would not necessitate an overnight stay.  And that route would probably make more sense for a first timer. But why not get a mini-vacation out of the deal, amiright? Especially in January.)

I had begun training for a marathon a little over 13 years ago, when I met my future husband.  I had even bought a book – “Marathon” by Jeff Galloway.  Because this was in a world before folks just went on to the interwebs to plan their lives. This was back when people actually drove to book stores and walked around, on their feet, looking for books that might contain useful information.

Long story short, I still have the book, but the training derailed pretty quickly.  I became far more interested in making gooey eyes at Dan than in running all the miles.  After that, it seemed there was always an excuse.  Some were legitimate, and others were less so. Planning a wedding (not especially legit).  Mandated bed rest during two pregnancies (you gotta give me that one).

Now, running is my time to regroup and refuel.  Which sounds slightly crazy.  Shouldn’t running deplete me?  Yet it fills me up, and its benefits seep into all the corners of my life. It is freeing and empowering.  I find myself going to bed earlier when I plan to run the next morning.  Skipping the wine when I know I have a run.

I value community generally, and I think the tight-knit running community in particular seems pretty amazing.  But, for me, running is about quiet self-care. Reflection.  Time to catch up on those podcasts I love. Or listen to “Ali in the Jungle” so I can spend a little time hanging out with my good buddy Pat who was taken from us too soon.

My distances began climbing as I started to train for the half.  I conquered six miles, then seven.  I allowed myself some pride, because, a few short months ago, even a mile was a stretch.

Still, I didn’t consider myself a runner.  I had run the miles. I had swallowed a bug while running, which is probably a true runner’s rite of passage.  I had suffered through a nasty case of shin splints when I tackled a too-ambitious run early in my new running chapter. But it wasn’t until a girl named Mollie died that I actually considered myself a runner.

Various arguments raged around Mollie’s death, and I won’t touch those here.  This isn’t where I dive into the politically charged conversation on immigration, nor where I explore the right of all women to feel safe in society. I will just say that it was a heart-breaking tragedy, and it never should have happened. To her or to anyone else.

And it caused me to make my first running-related purchase.

A slick pepper-spray and reinforced-knuckle combo designed for runners.  Five stars on Amazon.  I had previously carried a bell during some remote runs, because bears have been spotted nearby.  But I realized a bell wasn’t going to cut it.

How sad that my first running purchase stated on its packaging that it had to be shipped via ground only, due to its hazardous nature? How sad that I am constantly aware of my surroundings and vary my routes often? How sad that when I see a youngish man lingering in the park alone and staring at his phone, my first inclination is that he is a predator, rather than a Pokémon Go player?

That’s nothing, though.  I’m still here to write this blog.  And that alone is reason enough to be grateful. So I run. I run for myself, but also for Mollie, for Pat, for my family, maybe for you.  (Jeez, that’s a lot of people to carry with me on my runs. At least that explains my pace. 🙂 )

 

 

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