Never in a million years did I believe I would be in this position.
Marc gave me a track suit and a pass to the YMCA, introducing me to treadmills. So young, so able. Just not a runner. He bought me a bike.
There were the attempts when I jogged past rhododendrons on Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill. Before kids, no excuses. Just not a runner. Mt Rainier winked at me.
Round and round the school track across from the townhouse where Juliet was born. Wanted to get my body back, lots of support. Just not a runner. Camille cartwheeled around me.
It didn’t matter; I had done some big things in my life that made me feel accomplished.
But there was a line I knew I would never cross.
A physical one, a skilled one, a metaphorical one, an emotional one.
Year after year I stood on the sidewalk, waiting, hiding. Marc, and in later years, both girls, would always round the corner toward the finish line of something I could not do. I could get them to the start line, lace up their shoes, take their pictures, cheer for them, celebrate their chip times, collect their medals. Be there. But not be in there. This was their thing, not mine, I said.
I marveled, always, at the racers who wheeled through the streets with only the strength in their arms and in their hearts. Even then, teary-eyed and so inspired, still believing I couldn’t. I had a long history of proving to myself that I couldn’t, albeit it through half-hearted attempts. No, I had tried. Not possible.
I had a fast twitch, not suited for distance. I was too slow. I was too old to start. I would get injured. I didn’t know what I was doing, didn’t own the proper shoes. I was too busy. I couldn’t leave the kids during the day. Too tired in the morning. Too tired at night. It was too cold and too dark in the early hours; too cold and too dark in the evening ones. I was so out of shape. I couldn’t breathe right. I didn’t want to. Not my thing, remember?
If I’m really honest? Boy, did I want to run. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to feel the power in my legs and that tingly feeling that happens after a good workout. I wanted to be outside, taking care of myself, doing something for my body, mind and spirit. I wanted to achieve something. I wanted to celebrate myself. But I don’t do failure well, thank-you-very-much, so let’s just not go there.
But sometimes the way sneaks in the back door when you aren’t looking.
I never set out to be a runner. It wasn’t a lifelong dream and I didn’t add it to a bucket list. I didn’t plan it.
Simply, one night I found myself trotting alongside our new dog after Marc mentioned it was fun. The night was cool and I liked the sound of the crunching trail beneath my shifting weight. I stopped when I stopped feeling good. I did it another couple of nights.
I decided to try and so I did. One step after another. Being gentle with myself while continuing to push the distance.
At the beginning of this year I ran my first ever 5k race. In my neighborhood, in the rain, splashing through the puddles, and trudging up the hills. Calling to the race organizer that I was certain he was trying to kill us. I still felt like a poser on that course with a number pinned to my shirt but I finished that run, just ahead of my family who were running with bright umbrellas.
Never in my life did I believe I would run a 5k. It’s not my thing.
But sometimes a beam of light cracks through.
This Sunday I will run my first 10k and blow my mind as I cross the finish line. I will know, again, I can do anything I put the effort into.
I will run the race because I showed up.
The only way it can be run.
And then I’ll run some more.
But only because I left the back door open.
What might sneak in yours?
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