I hate running.
When I run, I distract myself by imagining ways I could cause an injury and make it look like an accident to justify quitting. Like, "oooh, there's a pothole, maybe if I step in it just the wrong way, a twisted ankle will keep me off the road for a while!" It's dark, but it keeps my mind busy, so I guess it works.
On the day of the half, we all met up at my house and left for the race. We hung in the starting area and made plans to run the whole thing together. I said early on that I would be ok if they went on without me because I knew I was the slowest of the group. My Battles, the other girls, were about my pace runners, but their husbands agreed to run and cheer them on, mine did not. So rather than be the 5th wheel, I prefaced the whole thing by saying that I'd rather be a loner. We started together, but by the end of mile 1, they broke off and went ahead without me.
It wasn't until a week later, when most of the other pains had recovered, my right leg still hurt pretty bad, so I went to the doctor and found that an untreated stress fracture had become a full on break up the outside of my leg. He told me in a mild eastern-European accent "Maybe running is, uhh, not for you. Maybe consider biking or swimming, but not so much running." And with that, he gave me an ugly pneumatic air cast, and I gave up on pretending I could ever be a runner.
When I run, I distract myself by imagining ways I could cause an injury and make it look like an accident to justify quitting. Like, "oooh, there's a pothole, maybe if I step in it just the wrong way, a twisted ankle will keep me off the road for a while!" It's dark, but it keeps my mind busy, so I guess it works.
In spite of my hate for running, I had to do it regularly as a member of the military. We were tested on a timed two mile run at least twice a year, and more often that that, I had to do it between for remedial training, so I learned to tolerate running. In the year a lost a bunch of weight (2010), I learned to make a habit of running. That's why, when my other Army friends decided to go in for a half marathon, I agreed to join them.
I had a training schedule I found online and at first, I stuck to it pretty well. I ran a few miles a day, changed between running for distance and running for time, signed up for a few 5Ks in the months leading up to our August half. The furthest I went was on an 8 mile out and back run during the kids' baseball practice. But once the training schedule starting listing two-digit distances, I made excuses about how I just didn't have time for them, so I'd run half the recommendation and multiply my time by two to count it as a full 10, 11, 12 mile run. Apparently, that's not how it works in official races.
On the day of the half, we all met up at my house and left for the race. We hung in the starting area and made plans to run the whole thing together. I said early on that I would be ok if they went on without me because I knew I was the slowest of the group. My Battles, the other girls, were about my pace runners, but their husbands agreed to run and cheer them on, mine did not. So rather than be the 5th wheel, I prefaced the whole thing by saying that I'd rather be a loner. We started together, but by the end of mile 1, they broke off and went ahead without me.
I knew I was slow, but I knew I could keep going, so I plodded on at a steady jog through the park reserve and all the way to the freeway sound boards before the first significant hill did me and pushed me to walk. At first, I said I'd just walk the hill, then get back to running. I ran, then a minute later, stopped again. That interval would continue for the entire second half of the race. I'd walk for longer and longer, and when I saw my cheering family or a water stop, I might pick up the pace and run for a minute or two. I figured there had to be other walkers behind me, I know a passed at least a couple before that hill, but at about mile 9, the tail end biker started riding alongside me and picking up cones as I passed them.
"Do you think you're gonna quit in the next mile or two?" he asked casually as he was totally oblivious to how demotivating that question was.
"Do you think you're gonna quit in the next mile or two?" he asked casually as he was totally oblivious to how demotivating that question was.
"Nope, I'm gonna keep going til I finish or die."
Sighing, as he realized he wasn't going to be done early liked he hoped, "OK, I'll be here."
So we kept going like that, him bantering every once in a while, me still walking and running through the residential streets. When we got to the park on the east side, I finally, for the first time in miles, saw another runner just ahead of me. She was on a similar schedule of walk/running, only she didn't have the trail biker on her heels and cops pulling out of crosswalk duty as soon as she passed them. I made it my goal to pass her, and I did. Then she passed me. Then I passed her again.
We were both clearly in pain, not super trained, and pulling an extra 20lbs or so around this 13 miles we didn't want to do. But after our 5th or 6th leapfrog, we decided to support each other instead. We commiserated over thigh chafing and shin pains, but then we started pushing ourselves to run a little longer and make it "just around the next corner" or "let's get to that tree and take a break." We didn't talk about our lives, I don't even remember her name, but I credit her and my mom driving around the route with cheering babies with getting me to the end when the pain was getting bad and the morale was worse.
I finished the race 45 minutes after by Battles, 15 minutes before the official race stop time, and just a step behind my new equally slow friend. I came in 80th out of 80 runners. There was no crowd at the finish line, just my friends, family, and a few leftover bananas and energy bars that hadn't been packed up yet.
It wasn't until a week later, when most of the other pains had recovered, my right leg still hurt pretty bad, so I went to the doctor and found that an untreated stress fracture had become a full on break up the outside of my leg. He told me in a mild eastern-European accent "Maybe running is, uhh, not for you. Maybe consider biking or swimming, but not so much running." And with that, he gave me an ugly pneumatic air cast, and I gave up on pretending I could ever be a runner.
--
I hesitate to call this one a failure because I DID finish. I think true failing would have been to quit, or to have never done it in the first place and wondered if I could really learn to love running. But I like to share this story because it has helped some friends get over their nerves before their own marathons, halfs, 5Ks, and tris, and because coming in last was still falling short of my goals of finishing inconspicuously somewhere in the middle alongside my friends.
But in thinking about this one, I realized that in life, I walk a very close line in life of grit versus stubbornness; when does one become the other?
I knew early in the race that I would absolutely finish, but it cost me a broken leg to do it.
I was determined to prove the statistics wrong and stayed married beyond the predicted 5 year lifespan of our courthouse wedding, but honestly, we should have been done 4 years before we were.
I have spent more than I should fixing cars, keeping my house, clinging to things as they are rather than letting go and starting over. Is my grit improving my quality of life or holding me back from a different direction I should be looking toward?
I knew early in the race that I would absolutely finish, but it cost me a broken leg to do it.
I was determined to prove the statistics wrong and stayed married beyond the predicted 5 year lifespan of our courthouse wedding, but honestly, we should have been done 4 years before we were.
I have spent more than I should fixing cars, keeping my house, clinging to things as they are rather than letting go and starting over. Is my grit improving my quality of life or holding me back from a different direction I should be looking toward?
To answer that, I read a book, appropriately called Grit, and took a Grit scale assessment by Angela Duckworth. I scored just above 4 out of 5, or above 70% of American adults. According to Dr. Duckworth, this - combined with my high average IQ - should rocket me into the levels of super success, but I'm a single mom writing a blog and working two jobs to live a middle class suburban life. My grit/stubbornness - to stay in my job, to not move more than a mile from my childhood home, to drag my (ex)husband around as a project in codependency - has held me back from my potential. I'm ungluing myself from some of it, acknowledging the bad and looking for good, but I'm not ready to jump yet, and that's ok, too.
But even when we DO acknowledge that it's time to quit something, do we get back up and try again, or move on to something completely different? I've had a lot of people ask if I'm running for office again, as if I'm somehow MORE of a failure if I don't keep running until I win, but I can firmly say I am OK with never winning. I checked the block of trying and failing, and it's time to focus my efforts outside of politics.
I'm still learning to find the line, but when I do, I hope I'm even more ready to try it, fail it, feel it, fix it, and eventually, grow.
But even when we DO acknowledge that it's time to quit something, do we get back up and try again, or move on to something completely different? I've had a lot of people ask if I'm running for office again, as if I'm somehow MORE of a failure if I don't keep running until I win, but I can firmly say I am OK with never winning. I checked the block of trying and failing, and it's time to focus my efforts outside of politics.
I'm still learning to find the line, but when I do, I hope I'm even more ready to try it, fail it, feel it, fix it, and eventually, grow.
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