Running used to come easily to me. I was never the fastest kid on the cross country team, of course. I wasn’t even in the top half. Some days training hurt brutally- I’m looking at you, speed work! Through it all, though, the actual act of finishing a run was never in question, only the tempo. My peak as a runner came when taking part in a few 25k races during college. I remember slipping out at 11 pm to tick off my twelve mile training runs in frigid late winter conditions. I usually hated it but only had my will, never my body, to overcome. Even after I stopped road running consistently I could pick it up at will. Twenty miles of almost-a-trail through the mountains of Montana? No problem! Just let me run one or twice a week, do some hiking now and then and I’ll be ready in two months.
I slacked off of the running over the years and somewhere along the line I lost “it.” I’ve gained some weight. I’ve struggled with minor aches and pains. I’ve become slower each year. Last year I came back with my longest race in a while, a 15k near Saint Patrick’s Day, and was astonished at how hard it was just working my way up to running nine miles again. Maybe I was trying to move too fast but I found it nearly impossible not to succumb to a couple brief walking breaks during my longer training runs. This year, having barely strapped on my running shoes since then, I settled for the 5k. A wonky ankle has slowed me for the past few months but the shame of stopping to walk on a three mile practice race nearly killed me.
Two species of pride live inside of me. The first said “hey, if it’s going to be hard I’m darn well going to train through it and get back to excellence!” That obstinate, angry little voice did not surprise me. The second, rejoining the first with cries of “I will not be made a fool of in an area where once I excelled!,” did. Training turned into a battle over a whole host of issues I didn’t realize I had and I was overjoyed to finally get the race itself over and done with yesterday.
A funny thing happened, though, around the first mile of the race. I had spent the morning dreading the whole affair. Cold air heavy with humidity slowly sucked the heat from my bones while each frigid little rain drop punctuated the chilling process. The wait for the starter’s gun was interminable and followed by another fifteen minute wait just to reach the starting line. My fiancée and her Marine Corps brother stood next to me and I really did not want to be embarrassed by both of them. In short, I was brewing up a pretty terrible attitude and simply wanted the whole mess finished.
Then we hit the start. 30,000 people made this year’s race far and away the biggest in the event’s history. They also made it nigh unto impossible to move along the streets of Portland with any celerity. The whole race was an obstacle course. Starting back in the nine-to-ten minutes per mile section of any race invariably places you, in practice, among the ten-to-twelve minute runners. I knew this and did it gladly. Passing soothes my soul while being passed rasps away at it like sandpaper. As the race began to unfold I realized I would spend the entire 3.1 miles as the passer. I couldn’t move fast enough through the crowd to pass everyone I wanted to so I settled into a dodging, darting, still significantly impeded game and the miles melted away. Even the final half mile push to the finish line provided no relief from the stampeding throng. Everyone sped up but I still couldn’t break through and just let my legs run wild. Once over the line I slowed and removed my chip only to discover that this run had been…easy. Relaxed. Fun, even, and I was neither miserable nor humiliated by what would turn out to be my 28:36 time. The impossibility of going any faster soothed my ego even as the reality of my all-time slowest 5k sank in and I find myself, against odds, a little enthused about continuing to train. Maybe forced slowness was the gift I needed to find my new pace, one that fits my bigger body and one that suits my move into my 30s.
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