It’s a spring day and everyone is cavalier in the heat — except me. As the teacher outlines the directions, my eyes widen in fear. Everyone will race around the field, receive a number based on finishing order, then each team will add up their members’ numbers, and the lowest total number wins. Long-limbed blondes are off in an instant, with their glistening, never-sweaty hair and a glint of sunshine in the distance. Meanwhile, my hair sticks to my face as I push through the grass. I finish one millionth, and my team of 8-year-old peers is pissed. Ever since I killed the dreams of some third graders, I have never run again.
I honor my able body by occasionally sprinting to catch the light rail, or watching the Food Network while bobbling on the elliptical. Elementary school left a bad taste in my mouth, so I chose art and language electives throughout the rest of my schooling. Now here I am, a writer whose greatest physical feat is riding a bike with no handlebars.
I was happy, and at times prideful, of this aversion to physical competition. Team sports? Why don’t I just disappoint you now? A proficiency in jokes let me slide past any invitation to intramural sports or public jogging. I have only ever enjoyed hiking, sometimes known as “walking on dirt.” And let me tell you, I’m great at it.
After a decade, I was pretty sure this aspect of my personality was nailed-in and unchangeable. But by some sick twist of fate, my best friend Meredith is an adventurous, athletic, vegan, aspiring triathlete. It all started this past March, when she talked me into going to an indoor rock gym with her. Rock climbing is like a cousin to hiking, she insisted. Fine.
As it turns out, rock climbing was awesome. It’s slow-paced, self-moderated and everyone is so self-absorbed that there’s no reason for anyone to watch me climb the Ladybug route in a tie-dye shirt and yoga pants. And yet it’s both challenging and rewarding. Twenty years old and this was the first time I had ever felt a sense of physical reward.
The feeling crept into my psyche, chipping at my fortress of athletic solitude. The following week I decided to forego my afternoon space-out session and hit the treadmill at the gym. Hyped on my newfound athleticism, I ran a mile for the first time in five years. I was ecstatic and dizzy. I texted my friends, boyfriend and even co-workers in victory. And before my endorphin high wore off enough for me to be embarrassed by my gesture, they all responded with encouragement and congratulations. Maybe there’s something to this, I thought.
Suddenly, a question I ignored for years was in front of me: for the rest of my life, do I want to be the kind of person that sits, reading and writing and watching all day, or a person that stands? Do I want to be able to run 13 miles? Can my body even do that? I didn’t know where to start, until a starting line appeared in the form of Pat’s Run. A friend signed up and wanted a partner in the 4.2-mile for-charity misery. I scoffed at the idea a couple weeks ago, but now it seemed a little more practical.
Pat’s Run simmered in my mind while I tested my stamina, but every time I ran I was discouraged by my inability to last much more than a mile. Despite my lack of commitment, I talked to everyone about it. "I’m thinking about doing Pat’s Run," I would mention, like a child looking to her parents for validation that she can meander off the driveway. But all of the “It’s so easy” and “You can totally do it” responses didn’t satisfy. What did was a suggestion to try a program called Couch to 5k. It’s a series of guided, progressive runs three times a week, designed to get people like me off their butts and into running condition.
I Googled fervently. I printed excel sheets of workouts and stuffed them in my purses. I did a walk/run of three miles, and then I finally registered for Pat’s Run. During registration, not only was I classified as an “Athena” because of my god-like weight of more than 140 pounds, but I was just barely allowed to be a “jogger” – “runners” complete the 4.2 miles in a magical 37 minutes, and walkers in over an hour. I picked a one-hour finish time and hoped for the best.
With less than two weeks left to train, I jogged twice and spent the rest couch-ridden with lady pains. Rather than curse my Athena body, I told myself I was merely saving all of my energy for the run. Saturday morning came, and I faced the 7 a.m. sun with my number pinned to my chest. My friends and I scattered among the 28,000 people to our corrals, and waited.
Finally, the horn blew and I booked it. I zig-zagged through masses of people, willing myself to stop only at mile-marker water stands. I gulped and threw my cup on the ground, mimicking the thousands of others. It was only my second time running on solid ground and the hills seemed to be mountains, but I never stopped; I bargained with myself to run as many minutes as I walked. By mile four, my body shivered with nausea, but then I saw a boy holding a sign: “Don’t stop, people are watching you!” I smiled and turned up the volume on my iPod.
It’s a spring day and crowds of black-shirted runners are pushing to the football-field finish line, me among them. Cheers echo from the sidelines but all I see is green grass ahead. I will my legs to sprint and cross under the enormous finish line, where I throw my head back, my eyes glistening like in every victory scene in every movie. I am elated now, and again when the microchip attached to my shoe clocks my time at just under 50 minutes. This time, I finish 14,022. It’s right in the middle of 28,000, and a hell of a lot better than one millionth.
Reach the reporter at kaila.white@asu.edu
