Full. The race was full. No way. We were still two and half months out. It can’t be full. There are 800 slots for this race. It can’t be full. I just checked last week and there was space. It can’t be full. I REALLY want to do this. So it can’t be full!
But it was full. We were told that there was a chance that 150 additional slots would open up, and we could get on a waiting list. Wait we did. And in the meantime, we trained. Every week, three times a week for ten weeks (that’s 30 training runs for 100 miles total, if you’re counting). We trained for the race I just knew we’d get into!
And then the news: those 150 spots were not going to open. The waitlist was closed. We were not going to get to run in the Biltmore 15K. I was beyond disappointed. All that training, for naught. I almost gave up. The Saturday we were to do an 8-miler, one week before the race we weren’t running in, I stayed home while my husband ran. What was the point? There was no race to run. Besides, who really wants to go run eight miles on a perfectly good Saturday. Not me. I felt so free.
Liar.
After missing the eight-mile run, I felt hugely let down. I really wanted to continue that training schedule that resulted in running a 15K. I cannot tell you why. But the sense of needing to do this was strong, so I decided to run my own 15K: Chart my own course, plant my own water, make my own post-race snack (oatmeal chocolate chip cookies). I ran that eight miles the next Monday morning. I was back on track.
So, fast forward to May 17, this morning. We got up at 7:00am, ate our Luna Bars and bananas, stretched, drove 5.5 miles out on the course to plant some water, and at 8:00am were at the starting line to this insanity called running.
Mile 1: Creak, groan, snap, pop. Body is not happy. Oh if it only knew
what was ahead of it. Kirk and I laugh as I look at my watch, already
ready to be done. Elapsed time: 3 minutes, 34 seconds. Only 99 minutes
to go!
Mile 2: This mile seems not too painful. It is also blessedly downhill. ☺ I keep trying to NOT think about what is ahead. Be in the moment. In this moment you are going downhill. In this moment, you are making a turn toward home. In this moment….[Home? Did you say home? Go there! Stop the insanity, crawl back into bed! It’s raining for gosh sakes. What are you doing? Do you have any idea how FAR you have to go?? ]
“Whoah!!” I think. What was that? Or WHO was that?
Mile 3: And the mental game has started. Have I mentioned that running is 90% psychological? I hear a voice: “You’re not even 1/3 of the way through. Feel how tired you are? You don’t have to do this. It’s not a real race. Even if you keep going, just remember you can walk.” OHHHH, there she is. The first thought of the walk. And at only three miles. Just because I think it doesn’t mean I have to do it. Maybe I’ll walk at mile four. Or at the mailbox at the top of that first hill. Right now, just keep running. Oh, and breathe.
I run by a neighbor’s house. I remember her words, “Enjoy every single step of it.” It makes me smile. And it activates that voice, “Enjoy?? You think you can ENJOY this?” I smile at this poor part of me. “She’s so cynical” I think. And then, as I plod on down the hill, I begin to philosophize about the concept of enjoyment: Am I enjoying this step? (More so than if it were uphill!) Does enjoyment need to be in the moment? Or will I enjoy the accomplishment when I finish and therefore every step that makes up that accomplishment is a part of that enjoyment and therefore each step is indeed enjoyed?
I laugh at myself and my philosophizing and choose to enjoy that moment of laughter, that moment of smiling inside and out at the encouragement of a neighbor. And look, before I know it, mile three is complete.
Mile 4: I am beginning to feel a little bored. Well, maybe not bored (although I have been plodding along for 32 minutes). I realize that I still have more than an hour to go. But I’m not thinking about that (yeah, right). Instead I decide it’s time for music. This mile is mostly flat with a gradual hill at the end – a hill I often don’t make it up without a teeny little walk break. I tell myself to get to the end of the 4th mile. Then I can walk. Maybe.
The first song in the random mix on the iPod is My Sharona by the Knack. A snappy little tune from my high school days whose message I didn’t fully understand until several years into my adulthood (same goes for Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf and many others from my teen years, but that’s another story.) For some reason, I attribute that song to Rick Turner, a friend of mine from Denver. I think of him whenever I hear that song, of his goofy sense of humor and how he would make fun of the song (or was he making fun of me for liking the song? Hmmm…). At any rate, I think of him and of the amazing community I had there. I pause (mentally) for a moment of gratitude (which is an odd thing to feel when juxtaposed with the words“Keeping it a mystery gets to me, Running down the length of my thighs, Sharona, Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty mind…” running through your brain.)
Mile 5: Here I am at the start of mile five, at the top of that hill, and I’m still running. Huh. Interesting.
I plod along. Now, I am struggling up yet another hill – little, but steady – I glimpse my legs. I start to critique those thighs as I often do, when the words of my cousin hit me. She told me she was “impressed by my strength.” Powerful words that meant so much. They are now my mantra for this run. “Strength.” I do not critique my legs. Instead, I am in a bit of wonder about their strength.
As I think about strength and thighs, I suddenly recall a dream I had last night about Shawn Johnson. She and I were in a gym together, working out on the uneven bars. I was trying to jump up and grab the top bar so she could help me with my kip. She did not know what a kip was. Is that even possible? An Olympic gymnast who doesn’t know what a kip is?
Anyway, I couldn’t reach the bar. I jumped but could not get high enough to grab it. Shawn, a pint-size chicky who is a full foot shorter than me (at least she was in my dream), jumps up and grabs the bar. How was that possible? Then I thought (in my dream head), “It’s her thighs.” Her muscular and amazingly powerful thighs. And, as I complete mile five with another glance to my own thighs, I think, “take that Shawn Johnson.”
Mile 6: I am halfway through this mile. I still have not stopped. I decide to try and get to the end of mile six before I walk. Problem is, I am now at the first of two big hills. This one is steep, but not horribly long. I am rounding the corner to start this climb, wondering at what point I will walk, and I think again of my cousin. She is calling me strong. Yet, she is a woman who has raised/is raising (does it ever really end?) three beautiful children, obtained a degree while doing it, and molds the minds of a bazillion kindergarteners every day. If that’s not strength, I don’t know what is. And then there’s her husband, my cousin the athlete, the man who can kick my ass in a handstand contest (and I’m pretty good at handstands), an honorable, amazing man of strength. I think to myself, “If this man and this woman are saying they are impressed by your strength, you’d best get your booty up this hill and make ‘em proud!” And up the hill I run.
I am nearing the six-mile mark. And I have a crazy, obnoxious, delirious thought: “What if I can run the whole way?” Never mind the fact that I thought I might pass out at the top of that hill (literally). Never mind that I just ran the longest distance I ever have without walking. Never mind that there is STILL a whole 5K race left. Never mind that I have been running for 63 minutes already. Never mind that the next mile is UP a HUGE hill the WHOLE way – a hill I have trained on but never made it up without walking. Run the whole way? Humph. That’s just crazy talk.
(Side note: At the end of mile six, my average pace was 10:35. For a girl who had been averaging 11:30 on long runs, that’s pretty dang good.)
Mile 7: So who is the idiot who mapped a course that puts a huge, steep, despicable, loathsome hill in the run AFTER we’ve already run six miles??
This is the hill that runs from Charlotte Street to the Grove Park Inn. The Grove Park Inn has a FABULOUS view of Asheville. (See attached pic of the view.) The reason the Grove Park Inn has a fabulous view of Asheville is because it sits ON TOP OF A MOUNTAIN. So, hey, let’s run to the top of that mountain, just for fun. Yeah.
I’ve trained this hill. I’ve never made it up this hill. Not even
close. I know there are four main sections to get to the top. I can do
section one. When I get to the end of section one, I know, blessedly,
finally, it will be time to walk. Hallelujah.
But wait. I hear a voice. (And not the cynical one. She has oddly disappeared. The negative, winy “I can’t do it” voice that plagued my mental faculties for miles 1-6 seems to be gone. Maybe she’s passed out from all this running. Maybe I killed her). Rather, I hear a voice tell me, “You are actually feeling OK. Maybe you can make it up this next section.” “Really?” I respond. Hmm. Alright.
So up section two I go, at times wondering if I am still really running. How slow can you go and still call it a run? I see my husband look back. I swear I saw his jaw hit the road when he saw I was still running. I giggled. Let me surprise him! He’ll be so proud….
And that thought gets me through section three, the steepest and hardest. I desperately want to stop, but I want more to be able to surprise my husband (and myself) with the feat of climbing that hill. And will you look at that? I see section four. Which means I made it up section three.
For section four, Tori Amos shows up on my iPod. Glorious!! My heroine, my inspiration, my admiration. Oh yeah, sing it baby. Sing me to the top. Her voice and a promise is what gets me there. “I’ll stop when I get to the top,” I promise my body. “Really. As soon as we get into the parking lot of that gorgeous Inn, we can walk and enjoy the beauty.” I can’t wait.
I am a liar. I get to the top (hallelujahhotdamnholyshit), ready for the promised rest. I am so dang proud I ran up that hill – er, mountain. But now that I am there, I realize that the end of the seventh mile is just through the parking lot and down a hill. Down. A Little Hill. I start rationalizing like an alcoholic: Surely there is no harm in reaching seven miles without stopping. Then I can stop. Surely it will be ok since it is downhill. Then I can stop. Surely the little hill won’t tire me too much more. Then I can stop. Surely it’s just one drink. Then I can stop.
Mile 8: Oh. My. God. I have now run seven miles without stopping. My hips are starting to talk to me. “Um, hello, Dani? We’re done. Go ahead and walk now, take a break. In fact, why don’t you just head on home. This is the end of the line for us.” I ignore the voices. Hips? Since when do my hips hurt when I run? For that matter, since when do my hips talk?
Here’s what I am thinking: Even if I stop right now, I have accomplished something huge. I have run seven miles without walking. And even though my hips want me to be satisfied with that accomplishment, I start thinking of mile nine. It is only two miles away. Two measly miles. Ooooh, can I do it? Can I really finish this whole race without walking?
In that mental and physical state, two miles is an eternity. I can’t think that far ahead. How about I just consider completing this eighth mile without walking? It really is downhill now (down the same mountain I had to run up). I can make it to eight.
I learned something about myself during this eighth mile. I can’t set goals too high. At mile seven, I couldn’t say, “Let’s just run all the way to mile nine.” That was too lofty. I need the increments. Maybe there’s a life lesson in there somewhere.
As I complete mile eight, I am thinking about my cousin Lori. She told me she was cheering me on. So now I am imagining my own little cheering section as I come around a corner. You’re all there. Cheering me on, holding signs. In a real race, that is very motivating. In this race, I imagine all those people who have offered their support and encouragement standing on the sidelines cheering. They show up every couple of blocks. They move fast.
Mile 9: I am in a bit of disbelief. Mile nine? Really? But I haven’t taken a break yet. How is this possible? I’ve been running an hour and a half – the same amount of time as the movie Doubt. A very scary thought hits me. I only have a mile left. (Well, a mile and POINT THREE. As if nine miles isn’t enough. Nine MILES. Is the point three necessary? Really?)
I digress. The scary thought is this: I have crossed the point of no return. Meaning, up to this point, I could have walked at any time and considered myself successful at completing this run. But, with only a mile left (ah, crap. One POINT THREE miles left), I know that if I walk now, I will feel a teeny weeny ugly bit of failure. This is not a good spot. I suddenly realize how important it was for me to be able to walk at any point. I need that “out,” just a rest, a break from the pain. It feels, in mile nine, that it has been taken away from me. My crutch. This feels bad.
My Sharona returns on the iPod (what’s up with the shuffle feature?). No no. You’ve had your time in my head, Rick. Next….(Coldplay. That’s better.)
I think of my friend who sent me an essay from George Sheehan, runner, when I was struggling with a training run. George says, “With just a little thought, however, it should be evident that physical laws parallel those of the mind and the spirit.” Hmmm. This last mile is challenging both my body and my mind. And within me is my spirit. I ponder how my spirit, my will, my determination, my present-mindedness and my desire for the accomplishment can work together to pull my body through this last mile (and POINT THREE). George continues, “I run so I do not lose the me I was yesterday and the me I might become tomorrow.” Who will I be tomorrow as one who has run this 9.3 mile course without stopping? I want to find out. And so I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Mile Point Three: Thank God for Kirk. He is making me laugh (try laughing while you are running the last steps of a 15K!) My hips are hurting so much. So, I change my stride to try something new. In so doing, I pull ahead of him. He starts imitating an announcer, saying, “The crowd is roaring as she makes her move. She is passing the great Kirk Webb. She’s gonna make it! And the crowd goes WILD.” Laughing, tasting victory, I pick up the pace and run the hell out of that point three.
One hour, forty-two minutes. 10.9 minute mile average. Zero walking.
Now that it’s done, I wonder how I did it. Really. Me? I’m not a runner. I just started this insanity in February. I wonder, “Who is this runner chicky and what did she do with Dani?” I don’t know how I did it. I just kept taking the next step.
I think there’s a life lesson in there somewhere.
