When I was about 10 or 11, I found running. It was summer and my sister Barbara had come from Arizona. I was playing by the road and my sister began to jog around the block. I laughed at her as she started her second lap around the block. I remember thinking what a nut. By the fourth lap I was running with her. I fell in love with the misery of running that day. In grammar school I ran in a few meets held once a summer organized through school. I think I ran the mile and did the long jump. Neither which I was very good at it. But still I loved the running and for whatever reason I always ran.
When I got to high school I ran 3 years of winter and spring track and loved every minute of the pain, the cold, the heat. We would go for 5 to 6 mile runs. I remember coming home from practice barely able to walk, my shins screaming in pain. But still I couldn’t get enough. I played basketball when I was younger in a league and playing team sports was just not my thing. Although I was on a team and raced against others I think I always felt I was racing against myself. A lot of time I was racing against myself as I was not that fast and never had the ability to compete. It never deterred me from giving it my all. By my junior year during spring track I ran the two mile. It was a lonely race to run being slow. When all the other runner s pulled away it did give me time to think. It was getting a little too lonely and I pulled up a few times with an “injury” before finishing. No one really questioned it as I was not exactly making a difference points wise during the meet.
I think where everyone else lived for the meets, I lived to train. If I could have just trained and never ran in a meet, it would have been fine. I would be sitting with a teammate last period before practice and being looking out the 40 degree rainy day. He would complain we would have to run in this weather. Inside I loved the thought of it. My favorite feeling was being 3 miles out away from school, soaking wet, hot and cold, nothing to do but turn around and come back the 3 miles. It was great motivation for finding and keeping a decent pace.
After high school I still ran but slowly slipped into being too busy. Going to school and working full time allowed little time for running. That’s what I have told myself. As I grew bigger I was still active but never went back to the running. I swore one day I would do it again. By the time I hit 35 I came to the realization that this body would never again run as it once did. I just couldn’t. What a sight that would be, never mind just the feeling of pulling all I retained over the years around the track. I missed the pain; I missed the solitude and the ability to be completely absorbed in the misery of it all and still somehow feeling the most content in the midst of all that. Never again.
I began walking two years ago. I was still in denial I would ever run again. After walking about 6 months around my neighborhood every day, it happened one rainy cold night. I spontaneously began to run. Not fast mind you but this body began to move like it hadn’t in 20 years. It was a short run and back to walking I went. “What the hell was that? “I thought. I eased back into it. Little by little I ran a little more and walked a little less. The treadmill helped a lot in retraining my legs to remember how to do it.
Starting off slow on the treadmill, I had idea what my pace should be. As the months went by I felt the memory in my legs returning as my speed and distance increased. I hit new goals each time I ran. Much like running on the street to a far point and having to run back, I found setting a time total had the same effect. I have no choice but to run until the time is up. Whatever the pain I feel and however much I want to quit, I have to finish. This shaped my brain and legs to push harder and faster. I found the joy of suffering was lessened a little by not having the elements of weather to add to the experience.
It was a slow process returning to running. The first five minutes of every run for me is hell as I think why I am doing this. But I always find a good pace and settle in. The first summer I ran a few 5ks and did very well. I was still fairly slow but once again I am racing against myself. Running these races is still a solitary experience. I have my head phones on, the course crowd thins out. I am running down a path through the woods. Peaceful, painful but a rush hits me as I approach each finish. I want to run faster to be done with it but at the same time I do not want it to end. As the conflict in my brain concludes several things happen to me when I hand in my running receipt to the timers. I feel elation then a wave of emotion comes over me. I momentarily break down and sometimes cry. I have no idea why. I can only speculate that I can’t believe I just ran a in a race when I had convinced myself It would never happen again. It only lasts a moment. The 5k races are not that far for me at this point. It’s actually a shorter distance then I used to running now. I am still trying sort out why that happens.
The first time I ran 3 miles out and had to head back, the misery of it all made me just kick up my pace and I felt a feeling that was I thought was long gone. No one else can push me; I have no one else to depend on. It’s just me out on the road. I look at my watch to see how I am doing as I hit certain landmarks of the distance I have covered pushing myself harder. The memory in my legs is now restored after 20 years dormant and I have found running and my pace again.
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