Two days ago, I ran for 13.1 miles, finishing my second half marathon in the last few years – and well, ever, I guess. To be able to say that I’ve done two of these things now is something I never would have believed back in 2009, when I was in the midst of some Internet shows, 110 pounds heavier and largely (pun entirely intended) unsatisfied with my creative and professional trajectory.
The most recent half marathon was much more fun than the first one. Considering I weighed 70 more pounds for that race, that should be a tad less shocking than Paula Deen having diabetes. Back in 2010, it took me almost 3 hours and 20 minutes to go the distance. In 2012, I barely skimmed in under my goal of 2 hours, with a total time of 1:59:56.
Here are some pictures:
2010
2012
Next year, I’ll see if I can combine those distances and run the full marathon without keeling over somewhere in southwest Houston.
The other day, a friend of mine asked me if I liked running, or if it was just something I do to keep the weight off. Without really hesitating, I told her that I do, in fact, enjoy running. Quite a bit, actually.
“Why?”
It’s funny. I didn’t have an answer. And I’m not sure if I will have one anytime soon. That probably makes it sound like some kind of zen thing, but it’s really not. My answer is more like a picture than something I can put into words.
Whenever I think about why I like running, I think about the only time I ever tried to run a mile in elementary school. It was a muggy fall morning in Sugarland, Texas, and my fourth grade P.E. coach herded all of us outside to do a series of exercises. After forcing us to contort our bodies in a variety of torturous scenarios, he then told us we were going to have to run a mile. As a nine year old, I of course had no concept of just how far a mile actually was, but in my head he might as well have asked us to run to Saturn.
So I ran. I didn’t have a choice. Or a prayer. I was an unathletic chubby kid that parted my hair down the middle and pretended like I was on the bridge of a starship during recess. I remember the cramps that hit my side like thousands of daggers, the muggy air as I tried to huff it down into my lungs. My parents’ divorce was rough, but running a mile outside of Highlands Elementary felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me. When we were done, I threw up in the bathroom and went to the nurse’s office to lay down because I was embarrassed. All the other kids had run the mile without a problem.
For some reason, that morning stuck with me. It was almost a decade before I would try to start running again, with similar results in high school. I’m not sure what it is about childhood, but memories like that leave marks somewhere deep inside of us.
I guess that doesn’t answer the question of why I like running, though. As I said, it’s more of a picture than something I can put into words. The best way I can describe it is that when I run, I think of that nerdy kid who didn’t have a lot of friends. I think of him giving up in 4th grade and him giving up in middle school and him giving up in high school. I think of all the times he didn’t have the confidence to do something that he should have been able to. I picture the insecurities that ran him around by his nose until his self esteem finally hit rock bottom.
And then I want to rewrite that story.
Somewhere along the way, that picture was enough to keep me running, one step at a time.
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