My Reason

I am maintaining my speed, and it is looking good. I am on my second lap around the Boulder Reservoir, and each mile I seem to be passing someone who passed me earlier. I am taking it slow and steady. For me, it is important to hold a pace that saves energy for the end… “It’s a marathon, not a sprint” is on repeat in my head. I know it is just a half marathon, but this old adage is reminding me to keep my steady, breathable pace as I round past the dark waters of the reservoir complete with its murky smells and then glide onto the shoulder of a county road. I slip past ponytail girl. She passed me on this stretch on the first lap of two laps. I can see she is struggling to keep her breathing steady now. She is straining. I know that feeling. No judgement here–I am glad that my winter running series taught me patience, not to get swept up in the excitement and not to go out too hard.

Phenomenal tunes kick into my headset as I and the pack I run with turn off the paved county road onto a gravel road bordered by fields on each side–90s alternative gets me pumped. I can’t believe how much energy I still feel, like I could run another 10 miles. A widely spaced tree-line borders between me and the field to my left, cottonwoods I think. I am enjoying their shade and the beauty of their leaves shining and waving in the now late morning light when I notice two squirrels running next to me. At first I think they are chasing each other, but they sprint along next to me for so long (somewhere between 20 or 40 meters) that I can tell they are just curious. What a curious crew these humans–making six and half mile circles around the countryside.

Off the country road then back to the gravel road leading to the reservoir. A little girl standing with her brother and dad hands me a bit of frozen blue popsicle, which I accept graciously. Thank you, I say with heavy breath, smiling. Both kids look so proud. Good job, dad, I think.

 I am coming down a hill now, and I can see the reservoir again–its dark waters contrasting with the glint of the sun reaching for the top of the sky. Up ahead I see a mile marker, 11 miles. Just two more miles to go, and I will have finished my first half marathon! And with this thought I feel a flush of emotions travel up my arms to my throat where I catch a sob. That’s odd. And then I feel tears streaming on my cheeks. It catches me so off guard that I give one throaty laugh out loud. I am glad for the cover of my sunglasses and the distance between me, other runners and the last water station right now. 

Tears? I have never cried while running. Why now? I ask myself. My mind produces an answer: You. Are. Doing. It. It says. It has been a rough few weeks. I had little motivation at work or home–each workout was a struggle. I missed 1 or 2 trying to catch up on work, but I kept showing up. These last two miles feel longer than the first 11. I catch another soft sob in my throat as fatigue begins to invite me to slow a little. What is it with the sobs? Am I just tired? Overworked? I think of my racing book I finished, the Olympic runner saying embrace whatever happens during the race, even tears. I thought it was strange at the time, but here I am. 

Up another hill. I lift my heels and lean forward to run up on my toes. I am tired. It would feel good to stop now, but I know I won’t. 

I am nearing the last mile now. I am still crying but in a detached way–a few tears are continually escaping out of my eyes. My heart is not only beating its steady running beat, but it is floating, somersaulting in my chest. It is still releasing whatever burden it is trying to shed. But what? And why? Then I think of my stepmom telling me I would never be able to run the five miles from town to home because of the big hill at the end. Even my stepbrother, who was 10 years older than I at the time, had to call her when he reached that hill on his bike, she says. Of course, I would never be as athletic as him…I think of my lonely years in elementary school, too shy to talk to most of the other kids in my class besides a friend or two. I remember feeling that even my teachers barely noticed me in Kindergarten to third grade, and when they did it was something negative: Putting me in reading intervention because of my poor oral reading (caused by my racing anxiety when I had to read out loud), or to ensure I was moved away from my only friend (because we were too much of a disruption). To this day, I wonder how the two of us were any more disruptive than other friends. The following year I was so lonely in my classroom for the first half of the year–knowing no one’s name, all the other kids had friends. It took me half a year to make a new friend. 

Rejected. Unbelieved in. School was depressing. Lonely. I was convinced something was wrong with me. Some error I couldn’t put my finger on. 

Now I am running for that girl. I believe in that girl. The relief in my chest intensifies and continues for the next quarter mile or so. Catharsis, I think. The reservoir and the finish line are getting so close. I know my reason, my deep reason for running now. It is one that many people share: I want to show that I can. But it is deeper than that–I want to prove to myself that I am not wrong to believe in myself. I want to show that I am someone worth believing in. Someone worth noting. Someone who can do incredible things. 

I am tired as I round the corner nearing the end. Another hill. It seems like it is all uphill to the finish… I pass another runner. “Almost there,” he says–as if I need reassurance. But more likely he is reassuring himself. There is a crowd of spectators now beginning to line the gravel road. I see my boyfriend waving at the top of the last hill. When I reach the top of the hill, I see the last 200 feet, a straight, flat stretch, and I pick up my pace. When I reach the last 150 feet, I sprint. I hear the crowd cheer. I can’t hear what the announcer is saying, but I hear the excitement in his voice. The euphoria is high when I sprint across the finish. I can. This is for her. She grew up, and she didn’t give up on herself. She kept going.  Kept believing in herself.

I don’t place, but I finish strong, and my split time is higher than I expect when I check it in the car. I excitedly wave my phone at my boyfriend, announcing my time. He smiles, although he can’t look right now–he is watching the road. “That’s great, love,” his reply. “I am proud of you.”

And I am proud of me, too, I think.

I can. You can. We all can. We are all worth believing in.