I’ll be happy if running and I can grow old together.
~Haruki Murakami
I’ve been running my whole life. At first, it was to escape the Pirates in Neverland, or to tell on my brother for stealing cookies before dinner — and then running to escape the cookie stealer as he stormed toward me in retaliation. I ran through my teenage years and college as an easy and cost-effective way to stay fit. I continued to run through adulthood as motherhood, career and hobbies kept me in constant motion. Running was a fun hobby — something to be done quickly and efficiently so I could get back to my busy life.
Despite my perseverance, running never became more than a hobby for me. Never running more than three miles at a time, I couldn’t fathom enduring anything more than a 5K. It wasn’t until I was overcome with temporary insanity that I was forced to step outside of my comfort zone and sign up to run a half marathon.
The majority of my life was spent in a small town in the Deep South. I left for college, but soon transferred back to a university in my home state to marry the love of my life. Turns out this “love of my life” had ambitions of adventure beyond the Mason-Dixon, and he eventually moved our family away from the comforts of family, friends, grits and front porch sittin’.
Excited as I was to be in a new city, with new food, places, people and adventures to be had, I was also lonely, and desperate to make friends and form connections. I joined a book club, quilting club, moms’ group and dinner group. Months passed, and I still felt I hadn’t developed meaningful relationships with anyone.
I blame what happened next on pure desperation. It’s all that could explain my enthusiastic “Sounds great, count me in!” when approached about participating in an upcoming half marathon. A half marathon! 13.1 miles. I must have been insane. Reflecting back on my usual three miles, 13 miles was an unfathomable distance.
After the initial shock wore off, I found comfort in burying myself in research. My research led me to buy my first pair of what I could only assume were gold-lined running shoes. Comforted in knowing I was outfitted for the upcoming task, I laced the most expensive shoes I’d ever bought and thought myself ready for my first day of training.
My running partners picked me up at my door, and we fell into a steady jog. I took it slow. One mile, then two. They coached me on form and proper hydration. Words like “chafing,” “carb loading,” “strides” and “electrolytes” became part of my regular vocabulary. I built slowly to three, four and five miles. Seven straight miles felt akin to climbing Everest in my eyes, and I soon became addicted to the high I’d grown accustomed to after a long run.
Mile after mile, I fell in step beside my new friends. We talked about our favorite music and restaurants, and exchanged funny stories about our children. At about mile 10, the conversations deepened. We confided in each other about our past and hopes for our future. We discussed our fears and disappointments. Breaking for hydration and quick gooey fuel, we’d lean on each other to stretch our quivering legs.
By the time we were running 12-mile legs, I knew I’d made lifelong friends.
The day of the race finally arrived. Adorned in gold-lined shoes, waistband of water and goo, with my sweatband in place, I finally felt like a bona fide runner. At the start line, armed with my friends, I already felt like a champion.
My time training had paid off. I felt capable and strong. I held a steady pace and kept up with my companions as long as I could. By mile 10, I began to slow and told my trusty running mates to go on without me. As predicted, they gently slowed their pace to fall in line with me. Legs shaking and knees buckling, we crossed the finish line together.
What began as a need to fill a social void in my life became a skill that would be vital in the years to come. At the age of 31, I was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. Not minutes after the diagnosis was confirmed, I had on my trusty running shoes and was soon miles away from home. I ran until the tears came, and I kept running. I ran until the panic set in, and I kept running. I ran until my husband caught up with me and let me fall tear-stricken into his arms. As the endorphins and adrenaline wore off, we walked home arm and arm to tell our children. But now I was ready. I’d left my fears on the trail, and what remained were the will and determination to fight.
Throughout treatment, I continued to run when I could (and was permitted to by my doctor). Running became my drug like never before. At times, I needed to release stress and anxiety, and do something that felt normal. I would strap on my shoes and leave it all on the road. Though there would come a time when I couldn’t get out of bed, let alone walk, I still dreamed of the day when I could step out of my house and feel free.
We had our moments of doubt that those days would ever come, but come they did. Not long after my treatment ended and recovery began, I let the tears of gratitude fall down my face as I half-jogged, half-walked around my old trail. Still bald and frail, it was liberating to do something that meant I was still me.
I’ve participated in multiple races, relays and team obstacle courses since. Even still, when my head is blurred or burdened, I release the tension with my shoes on the pavement. Step after step, my heart pumps, and my breath quickens. I listen to the sounds of the world around me and let my mind wander to wherever it needs to go.
Although it started as a means to social inclusion, running not only provided me with friendships, but with a skill that would aid me the rest of my life. Though that first pair of shiny shoes is long forgotten, running will never be replaced. It’s safe to say I’m an addict for life. I hope in the years to come that my running will include scoring the winning touchdown at our family’s Thanksgiving Turkey Bowl, catching the Frisbee my son throws to me across the beach, and racing for the last cookie or to catch the mailman before he leaves. And after running all the marathons of life, I hope to continue running, even when my strides shorten and my pace slows so that I can play Captain Hook and chase a new little Indian across Neverland.