As late as Saturday evening, I still didn’t feel certain
that I could run 13 uninterrupted miles, even though it was less than twelve
hours until the start time of the first half-marathon for which I’d ever
registered.
I was fairly confident. I’d set my sights on a half-marathon
back in November, and for the past eight months, I’d been doing weekly runs of
10-12 miles, along with daily runs of about 2-4 miles. I was within spitting
distance of that 13.1-mile mark; I just had never actually done the entire
distance.
“The problem,” I told my friend Nicole, herself a distance
runner who only recently started competing in half-marathons, “is that when I
finish these ten- or eleven-mile runs, I always feel okay. But I never feel
like, ‘Gee, I really feel like going another mile or two. Or three.’ I’m just
really glad it’s done.”
Nicole assured me I needn’t worry. “You just take your
longest comfortable distance,” she told me. “Then you add another mile for the
confidence that wearing a race bib gives you, and another mile on top of that
for the boost from the spectators.” If she was right, that would put be right
up close to the 13.1-mile mark, and knowing it was an oceanside course made me
think that by 12.5 miles, I’d be able to see the finish line. Surely once I could
see it, I could reach it.
All of this sounded plausible to me. Sure, I could probably
run 13.1 miles. Probably. But I couldn’t possibly know for sure until I tried.
So on Sunday morning, I tried, and I’m very happy to say I
succeeded. I didn’t run it fast or particularly skillfully. In fact, out of a
field of 2,189 runners, I came in 2,007. “I prefer to think of it as 182 runners
still behind me when I finished,” I told my sister.
But even as I said it, I knew that was the wrong attitude.
It shouldn’t matter that there were nearly 200 people who ran the course slower
than I did. It shouldn’t even matter that there was anyone who ran the course
slower than I did. It should matter only that I finished.
And even that, as I often remind myself, doesn’t matter all
that much in the greater picture. Running may be good for you physically, but
it’s also, to some degree, frivolous. I’ve maintained a daily running streak of
more than 2,500 days – next month I’ll hit the seven-year mark – but as I often
say when people congratulate me for that, there are far more worthwhile things
I could try to do every day.
Yet even frivolity may have its purpose. I’ve run only
about a half-dozen races in my life – a mix of 5k’s, 10k’s, and five-milers
until Sunday's longer route – and one thing each race has in common is that
once it begins, I feel a sense of liberation from all other cares. For the
duration of the time I’m running, I give myself permission to think only about
the run. Not work assignments; not family issues; not national or international
political conflict. Just putting one foot in front of another, that most primal
of actions.
Sunday was no exception; it just lasted longer. For more
than two hours – okay, I’ll admit it: two hours and 39 minutes – running was
all that mattered. Yes, that’s frivolous, but it’s also healing. The rest was
waiting for me. I had plenty of opportunities on Monday to catch up on work and
family and national headlines. Sunday morning, it was just me and the race
course. And the blue sky and the sun. And the cheering spectators. And the
sparkling ocean. And all the oxygen I needed, in the air around me every time I
breathed in.
As the race ended, I almost wished I wasn’t quite at the
finish line yet. Miles 9 through 12 had become a little bit arduous, but the
final mile melted away. I almost felt like I hadn’t savored it quite enough
before it ended.
Frivolous. Yes, that’s true. But also magnificent. And I was
so very happy to have reached this personal goal.
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