Blogosphere, I have to come clean.
I hated gym class. In fact, uncomfortable in my skin as I was between the ages of 12 and 20, the thought of gym class made my stomach churn. In my middle-school and high-school world there were few things more agonizing than being forced to do just enough athletic activity to make my skin sticky and my hair frizz but not enough to have any real benefit - not to mention before a group of my peers more often than not including one of my crushes of the moment.
This is not to say I was a lazy kid or adolescent. I took ballet class (where I met my to-this-day best friend) from a young age, and continued to study jazz until early high school.
But in my lovely suburban town of Wilton, CT, athletes reigned supreme. And I was not an athlete. Running the mile in gym class was a dreaded twice-a-year event and my only goal was to make it in around 11-11.5 minutes so as not to be among the last to finish. The idea of team sports was foreign to me. I lacked any kind of competitive spirit and couldn’t fathom how exercise and fun could possibly co-exist.
In late high school and early college, I began working out for all the normal reasons a young woman starts working out. And I grew to enjoy it at times, though not setting foot on a treadmill (God forbid asphalt) until well into college. Junior year I hit a stride with running and began doing treadmill runs almost daily. I was proud of myself, and I felt good, but at the end of that day I was still doing it solely to squeeze into the smallest possible dress for APhi formal.
Since then, I’ve grown to crave and enjoy exercise. I love being active and alive. But it wasn’t until I ran my first race this past December that my life as a “non-athlete” was forever changed.
I knew I could run, but something about entering an actual race - wearing that bib number, affixing that funky tracking device to my shoe, and being amidst thousands of runners - real athletes - was seriously daunting. I still felt like a poser.
That first race left me reeling. My first ever race-related adrenaline rush yielded a 9:13 minute mile and an incredible sense of accomplishment. I immediately vowed to run at least five races in 2011 and became a member of New York Road Runners. Instead of just running, I began training - and by my second 4-miler in February, I had honed my pace to a swift 8:40. I needed a new challenge, though, so I reluctantly signed up for a 10k. It would entail the full Central Park loop, 6.2 miles with hills - and while perhaps a laughably easy run for athletes - it would be my biggest physical challenge to date.
The morning was chilly and damp - more reminiscent of April than May - but then again, I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve been in Central Park at 8am on a Saturday morning in May, and this was it. My ever-supportive boyfriend accompanied me to the park, where the familiar pre-race rituals were in full swing. I love watching everyone, from the rookies to the marathon runners, in that state - excited, awake, laughing and stretching and eagerly anticipating.
As I crossed the start line I felt slightly unsure of myself. I truly didn’t know what the next hour would hold - or would it be longer? The first mile or so was easy, of course, but I wasn’t in the right mental state. I needed to make a change. As we approached the first hill I heard a runner to my right say casually to his friend “I’ve been waiting all week to climb this hill.” Before I could think “Why, is there an open bar at the top of it?!” I stopped myself.
It wasn’t sarcasm. It was that genuine love of the challenge that exists in every runner’s heart.
The high that comes with doing something that may hurt, may feel impossible- because it is possible. Regardless of how long it takes, or how hard you sweat, or who is in front of you or behind you, you will do it. You will finish.
It was the jolt of inspiration I needed. I kept coming back to one very simple mantra - “Run your race”. Run your race, Canary. It doesn’t matter how far you’re come, or how far you have to go. Just go.
The only thing that matters in this moment is putting one foot in front of the other.
That’s the beauty of it. That’s the passion. I get it now.
I finished in 54:09. The last 1.2 miles felt like heaven. I hurt and I was tired, but there wasn’t a single doubt in my mind that I would finish, and finish well. Thanks to the clocks at each mile marker, I knew I had upheld a very respectable pace. All I had to do was keep going.
In the final 400 meter stretch, John yelled “CANARY!” from the sidelines and I turned back to see him smiling and raising a triumphant fist in the air on my behalf. I knew he was going to be there. Just like I knew I was going to finish the race.
The runner’s spirit is in unbreakable one. Undaunted. Undefeated. There may be steep hills, sharp turns, or black ice on your path. You may want nothing more than to stay in bed and wait this one out. But you don’t - because have a race to run. Everyone does.
Having finished this major milestone at an 8:44 pace, I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to call myself an athlete. But by God, I am a runner.
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