Running allows me to set my mind free. Nothing seems impossible. Nothing unattainable.
~Kara Goucher, Olympic long-distance runner
As my feet pound the pavement and my breath comes in shallow gasps, I pray that I won’t collapse and lie in a heap on the side of the road. I want to finish my first real race. And then I hit my stride. My breathing slows. My body glides low over the pavement. I am alone now, most of the pack having passed me in the first mile.
At 31, I am the oldest person in my running class. And I am the last to cross the finish line for every race. My coach waits for me every time. He has never asked, “Why are you in this class?” even though I wait for it.
My breathing is steady. My heartbeat establishes a rhythm with the swinging of my arms and the pounding of my feet. I am no longer tired. The air is crisp and smells of damp grass. I take a few deep breaths. The sun highlights the trees and flowers as they blur past me. The birds cheer me on with their song. The breeze ruffles my hair. This is why I love running. I am at the edge of my limits, but I am exhilarated.
My adrenaline has nearly reached its fever pitch. I can sense the end getting closer. I repeat my running mantra in my head: “Breathe easy, run easy, breathe easy, run easy.”
Then I see the finish line, surrounded by people cheering and waving their arms. I do not know them, but their enthusiasm energizes me. I reach into my core and find a kernel of strength that allows me a burst of speed. My legs churn, and I imagine myself leaving a trail of smoke in my wake.
I cross the finish line, and my body stutters to a halt. I resist the urge to throw up. My husband finds me leaning on a garbage can. He hugs me tightly and wipes my tears. He is my biggest cheerleader.
This is my fourth real race outside of my running class — the kind where I pin on a number and get a T-shirt as a souvenir. In class, I just get the satisfaction of finishing each race, which is enough. It is an incredible challenge — one that I never thought I’d be up for.
When I was 17, I was in a car accident. The doctors told my parents I wouldn’t make it. I broke my collarbone, pelvis, and both legs. I suffered blunt-force trauma to my knee. I lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion. I developed an embolism in my lungs. Yet, I survived.
Then my parents were told I would never walk again. But I did. Every afternoon, I placed my hands on a walker and forced myself to put one foot in front of the other. Stairs were a nightmare. But I pushed myself. Hard. I graduated to crutches. And then to a cane. And finally to my own strength.
I spent months in physical therapy. They said I would see the light at the end of the tunnel. They were good to me, even though I was a crippled teenager who could be a little angry at times. I spent a lot of time wondering if I’d ever be the same — and whether “the same” would be good enough.
And then I was limping as if I was walking on a boat in rough seas. The physical therapist was perplexed. It became physically painful. At one point, the physical therapist put a book under my foot, and then I stood level. One leg was shorter than the other!
A few days later, I sat down hard at the bus stop on my way to work. I heard a pop. My leg went numb. I expected pain. I’d already dealt with so much pain in the past three months that it wouldn’t have been a surprise. But the pain didn’t come. I got on the bus when it came.
I worked at the mall, as did my dad. I stopped in at his store and said, “I think I broke my leg.” He didn’t hesitate. He told his employees we were leaving, and we drove straight to the hospital. An X-ray proved I was right. My leg was broken. Again.
The rod in my femur had been too thin. The rod and the bone had been bending until the stress had been too much and they both broke. That also explained why one leg was shorter than the other. As the femur bent under pressure, that leg shortened.
A new rod and six months of intense physical therapy later, the limp was gone. The rod was removed, and I was back to normal. It was a reason to celebrate — marching-band-level celebrate.
I was active from that point on. I walked, rode my bike, hiked with my husband, and worked out at gyms. And then, 13 years after the accident, I started running. I’d had arthroscopic surgery six years prior, but my knee was doing so well that I thought I’d try it. And I loved it! I made a goal for myself of working up to running three miles. I met a gal on the track at the gym who was an avid runner. She cheered me on several times. She encouraged me to enter an upcoming 5K race. I’d never run in a race, but I thought, Why not?
I started at the line with everyone else, but I was a slow runner. I was sure everyone had already passed me by the time I crossed the finish line. But it didn’t matter because I’d done it! I’d finished my first race ever! Me! Someone who’d been told she’d never walk again! And it felt so good that I did it again. And again. The Race for the Cure in two states. A Fourth of July fun run. Even the running class!
Today, I’m running a 10K. Over six miles! But it doesn’t scare me. Nor does the fact that I cross the finish line behind all my classmates. They know my story, and they wait for me anyway, cheering me on. And I burst into tears every time I cross the finish line because I know how lucky I am to be running at all. That girl who was told she’d never walk again proved that doctor wrong. And I will continue to run, walk, and live every day with gratitude that I made it through. I’ll do it with a smile on my face and the breeze ruffling my hair.
— Kristi Cocchiarella FitzGerald —