Showing up matters: Here's proof

I had a tough time running this summer. The heat and humidity chewed me up, spit me out, and left me writhing on the pavement like an ant under a magnifying glass.  

I’d lace up my shoes and set off optimistically enough, thinking that maybe today would be different from the day before, the week before, the month before. But August was as bad as July was as bad as June. I’d start running, but would heat up so quickly I’d be forced to switch to a dull jog, and then would give in to long hot walks. 

Almost every run was awful. I honestly don’t know why I kept trying. Time and again I’d get out there only to end up like the Wicked Witch of the West, flattened and melting.    

I’d wonder if it was time to throw in the towel and throw out the old running shoes. I’ve been running closer to forty years than thirty now. I wondered if maybe my body was telling me I was done.  My knees ached. My stomach churned. My heart rate was off the charts every single run. 

Was it time to say good-bye to my one immutable constant, my friend through fat and thin, misery and joy, high school, college, first career, second career, and beyond? Was it time to bid my running life a fond and sad adieu? 

When you’re past fifty and when your runs are consistently poor, it can’t help but cross your mind that maybe it’s time to give it up. Put that part of your life behind you. Move on to other less taxing pursuits.  

I’m not quite ready to give up my Brooks just yet though. Running is like breathing for me. I need it. It’s a part of who I am. So I’ve been looking for ways to help myself get through this slump. 

I switched up my running routes.  I ran shorter distances. I ran longer distances.  I ran tons some weeks and some weeks ran nothing at all.  I cut back on cross-training. I rested more. I signed up for a couple of races, not because I was hoping to win anything, but because I wanted to mix things up a bit and be around more people with similar goals.  I figured maybe that would help too. 

Usually, when I sign up for races, it’s a pretty big deal. I train a lot. I obsess over how fast – or slow -- I run. I worry I won’t live up to my expectations. So this is different for me, signing up for a race just to run with lots of other runners. These races would be like any other long run, I figured, only I’d get a neat-o running t-shirt, and have water stop support.  

My first race with this new outlook was yesterday.  My only goal was to finish uninjured. My plan was to listen to my body, enjoy the scenery, go slowly enough so I could say thank you to all the volunteers, and smile as much as I could.  

I got to the race feeling happy and relaxed. I had no pre-race jitters because for me, this wasn’t a race.  It was just a long run with water stops. It helped that the race was so low-key. It was in a quaint hilly town in central Massachusetts.  There was no official starting line. There were no serious and imposing- looking timing mats. There was no spray painted mark to toe. No duct tape to stand behind.  

Shortly before the race began, a couple of hundred of us stood around in small groups on a quiet lane lined with Revolutionary War era homes and wild flower gardens. It was House Beautiful meets Runner’s World. Then some guy somewhere in front of us shouted out “Go!” and we went.  The crowd quickly thinned out. My friend W and I stayed at the back and trotted along blithely while nearly everyone ran past us.

Watching hordes of runners pass me by at the start is pretty much the norm. Maybe you’re thinking, “It’s a race. You should be upset that people are passing you.” Nah. That’s not how it works for me. I always start slowly.  If you’re a seasoned distance runner, you understand. Running distances is about constantly measuring distance against energy.  You go at your own pace, figure out what works for you, and tweak as you run. What works for me is starting slowly. Plus, remember. Yesterday was just another long run.  

The race was billed as “moderately hilly.” I’d heard from my friend W that it was actually pretty mountainous. I’d spent all summer running – er, walking --  on mostly flat stuff. I didn’t know what my body would do when it met up with lots of hills. I wanted to make sure I finished this run with my knees still attached to their ligaments.  I was definitely taking it easy and sticking to my plan to enjoy a nice, long run.

  

We scooted downhill for a half mile or so, then came to our first uphill, a narrow road with a surface that reminded me of chocolate cookie crumbs. W and I parted ways at that point. We’ve run many races together. Our paces are quite similar, but we each have different ways of getting through our run. We usually start together then split up. We often see each other along the course, but we rarely run exactly next to one another the whole distance.  We promised to find one another at the finish. 

It had been raining all night and the morning was silent and fairy tale foggy. There were runners ahead of me and runners behind me. The air was soft and cool. I drifted past apple farms and weathered colonials, heard horses braying and roosters crowing, caught magnificent views of distant forests alive with greens and yellows and blazing oranges. We runners were high above the mist at many points. The trees were fiery ghosts far below us. 

I came upon two younger runners chattering roughly, like crows. Their sounds jangled my nerves and interfered with the twitters and crackles from the wet branches all around. We hit a series of steep hills that ran from mile 6.5 to nine.  They slowed down to walk and I kept my head down and sped past. I had to get away from them. I liked running in this mellow dreamland. Their voices were too strident and real. Plus, the hill was a beast and I didn’t need to hear them talking about how crappy they felt. 

Ahead of me, many people were walking. It would have been so easy to stop and walk. I kept my eyes on the pavement to avoid temptation. As my breathing got ragged, I shortened my stride. I tried to ignore how much my feet had to bend to make contact with the pavement. The slant of the road was absurd. It was a five percent grade at that point, according to mapmyrun.com. 

No New England road should ever be that steep, I remember thinking. I wondered how the residents of the street made it home in snowstorms. The nuttiness lasted a half mile and it took forever to run it. I probably would have gone just as fast if I’d switched to walking, but I wanted to be able to say I’d run the whole way.

As I approached the eight-mile water stop, on the side of yet another outrageous incline, the volunteers yelled out that I looked great.  I laughed out loud at that and yelled back, “Please tell me this hilly stuff is done!” They laughed and said there was just one more hill left. Just one. Ugh.

I found it just around the next corner. But halfway up that was another water stop, an unofficial one manned by a couple of runner moms and their daughters. The kids, maybe second and third graders, were passing out Gatorade. The girls flashed me huge grins and the moms screamed that I looked fantastic. They really truly screamed it. Like I was Bruce Springsteen or Lady Gaga. That made me smile. 

I told the kids that their water stop was the best one of all, thanked them for saving my life with the Gatorade, and continued on. Those kids looked at me like I was some sort of goddess. I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy about running on such ridiculous terrain.  

At the top of the hill was the mile nine marker. A nice older gent in a volunteer cap, yelled out it was all downhill from there on. I yelled back, “Yeah! Just like my life! Har har!” He laughed back. I thanked him for being out there, and made my way down.  

I recognized this road. It was the one we’d driven into town. I picked up a little speed but didn’t try to push anything. It was just a long run after all. I wanted to end today’s run feeling good. My breathing was normal and I marveled at the fact that at my advanced age I could still run ten miles as easily as though I’d just walked to the corner.   

In no time at all I saw a few orange traffic cones leading to a roped off section of driveway, where some middle school girls stood holding clipboards next to a timer. I figured this must be the finish line, though I was uncertain of exactly where to stop. I trotted to the girls and they wrote down my bib number, handed me a bottle of water, and congratulated me on finishing.

I made my way back to the road and cheered on my friend as she finished. We guzzled our water and wandered through the farmers’ market set up just down the hill, eventually making our way back to the school cafeteria where we had picked up our race numbers. 

The race results of the earlier finishers were taped on top of a cafeteria table. Our results weren’t in yet. I read through the posted results to see if I knew anyone else who’d run that day. I didn’t, but something else caught my eye. I called W over to verify what I’d seen: So far in our division, only one other runner had finished. 

“You know,” I whispered, “It’s possible we could place in our division.” We laughed out loud. People turned and stared. 

 

Well, as it turns out, we did place in our division. I came in second, and W finished third. I’m still shaking my head and laughing about it today. 

Yesterday, I went into the run expecting to come out with some aching legs and hoping for a smile on my face. Turns out I got that and a whole lot more. Now I remember why I continued to try to run this summer, even when things seemed hopeless: Because after a while it does get better.  It really truly does.  You just have to keep going, that’s all.