Perspective. (Winning While Losing! Badly! With much Panting!)

I'm a runner.

I'm a RUNNER.

I RUN.  For no other reason than to just RUN.

For quite a few years, I always said that I wished I could be a runner.  I wish I could just run and run and come back all smiley and fit and bouncy cause I just RAN! 10 MILES! ENDORPHINS!

But I couldn't.  Not me.  I don't have the legs.  I played softball, where all you have to do is run to first base.  I don't have the lungs.  I'd get all gaspy if I hit a double.

And then I decided that I still wanted to be a runner.  Regardless.  So I started.  Then my husband knocked me up.  I'm Pregnant! Can't Run!  Followed closely by, I'm Overweight!  Can't Run!  For... a while.  Then, back to Pregnant, then sauntered over to Obese (yahoo!).

But about a year ago, I decided that the freedom I saw in those people jogging on the paths, on the treadmill.  I wanted that.  So I looked at why I wasn't a runner.  Did I have legs? Yep.  Did they work? Yep.  Did I have a husband who refused me time to spend on myself?  Furthest thing from it.

No.More.Excuses.

So I ran.  For 30 seconds, and then I got all gaspy.  So I walked.  Then ran.  Then walked.

Slowly the time I ran increased.  Then it would decrease if I let running fall by the wayside, as I did a few times.  But then I'd pick it up again, dust my shoes off, and keep on going.  I remember being SO EXCITED when I ran for 5 minutes.  Five Minutes!  I'm still proud of those first five minutes.  The increase from 1 minute to 5 was by far the hardest one to date.  I want to high-five obese me for those five minutes.

Anyway, I kept running, wondering when I could technically call myself a runner.  I eventually did a 5k, in which I walked quite a bit and thought I might die once or twice, but I finished.  In the middle of the pack no less.  About 3 months later I did a 4k with my husband, and with him running by my side, urging me on, I walked less, and sprinted to the finish line, in the middle of the pack.  Could I call myself a runner yet?

This past weekend I did my most recent race, a 10k, which is just over 6 miles.  I estimated, at the pace I run, it would take me about an hour and half to finish.  I run slowly.  Very slowly.  But I run.  So I set a goal, One hour, Thirty minutes.  Then I set an unrealistic goal: One hour, Twenty minutes.  I told myself that I would be happy with either, and anything in between, and if for some reason it took me longer, that would be ok too, because I would finish.

Paul was running this one with me, but we agreed before hand that he would run at his pace and I would run at mine, and that we'd  meet each other at the finish line.  As we were stretching and waiting for the gun to go off, I glanced around and mentioned to Paul that everyone looked really serious.  They had their worn-in shoes, their tight pants, strappy sunglasses.  They looked like runners.  I got a little nervous.  Could I hang with this crowd?

We got in position, near the back, but not at the back... because... I mean, I'm not that slow.  The gun went off, and the herd started moving, slowly as people picked up pace.  But then, everyone kept getting faster.  Paul kept getting faster.  I was there, at my pace that would carry me through the entire 10 kilometers.  But they just kept getting faster.  Before I knew it, the only two people that were behind me were two women who were walking the 5k.  I was at the back.  The very back.  I was that runner that runs by after you think everybody has passed.  And this happened within two minutes of the race starting.

I kept running.

You know those running magazines?  The ones full of advice about how to be a runner?  There are always articles about your first race.  What to expect.  What to wear.  And there is always, always, a comment about not being nervous about coming last.  Because you know why?  There will always be someone slower than you.  You won't come in last.  We aren't even going to give advice about what to do if you come last, because it won't happen!

Well.  I ran.  I passed about 5 people who couldn't keep up the crazy pace that the half-marathoners had set.  But they all stopped at 5k.  There were moments in the race where I was entirely alone for 10 minute long stretches, which had me wondering if I missed a marker.  It got to the point where I was pretending that the woman pushing the stroller or the elderly couple walking along the path were in the race.  PASSED YOU!  CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THIS CAN YOU!?!?!  Yes, I'm looking at you little bunny rabbit! You scamper off the path! I'm too fast for you! SCAMPER!

I went 5k without walking, just to see what my time would be.  They had a water station there, so I was planning on stopping there anyway.  I grabbed the water, drained it, kept running.  About 5 minutes later, the water gave me a wicked cramp so I walked for another 2 minutes, then kept running.  To the finish line.  Along the way, I was getting passed by people who were doing the half-marathon, which meant that they had to do an additional loop of about 3 miles before circling back to the main course.  Additional 3 miles.  They were coming up so fast behind me that I was actually being startled by them. Then they would look back at me as I am wiping their dust from my face and yell, SCAMPER!  Or maybe that was in my head.

So then I told myself that I was actually running the half-marathon, and so that meant I was at the front of the pack!  Wahoo!  Mind tricks!

I chugged. And I chugged.  And I chugged.  And then I saw the finish line.  And then I saw my husband who had come back to cheer me on for the last bit.  I passed him with a wiggle of my hand which was meant to say, I appreciate you and I love you but I can't stop because than I won't be able to start my legs again so meet me at the finish line so I can give you a high-five.  He understood.

I crossed the finish line.  In Dead Last.  Last Place.  Last.  What now, Runner's World?!

I looked at my phone, which was substituting as my iPod/GPS/Timer.  One hour, Eleven minutes.  Nine minutes faster than my unrealistic goal.  I killed it.  Slaughtered it.  And if that's what last place means?  Blowing my goal out of the water and having so many personal bests in the matter of 71 minutes?  I'll take it every time.

Because I am a runner.

Filling out.

One of the things that I think is so unfair in this world (but so right, so logical, so understandable, and so unavoidable) is the fact that when you are young, you have no idea of the blessings that you are entrenched in, and when you grow up, you spend most of your time devoted to getting those blessings back.  There are so many things that I look back on and think, "If only..."  If only I could have taken advantage of my highschool years and really studied and learned while that was all I was supposed to do.  I was a good student, didn't get into trouble (the only detention I ever had was when I was caught with my fleece vest unzipped during lunch... not really hardcore).  But like most teenagers, what I really digested was the social aspect of school.   If only I had taken advantage of every free moment in Paul and my marriage to spend quality time with him when it was just us, no distractions.  If only I had taken every moment when I just had one child to appreciate how easy it actually was (compared, of course, to two... one is hard, just not as hard...).  If only I had woken up during the night before I had kids and thought to myself, Isn't this nice that I can just close my eyes and go back to sleep.  If only I appreciated what I had.  If only, if only, if only.

If only I had developed healthy eating habits before my metabolism started crawling instead of racing.  If only I had seen my body for what it truly was instead of looking down and seeing large instead of curves. 

So right now, I'm trying to change that.  I'm attempting what I think might be the hardest thing I've ever done.  I'm trying to stop, look down, look around, and appreciate.  I'm trying to look at my body, at the muscles that have developed over the past year, the belly that still hangs over (and might for a while... two kids in 15 months kind of changes things!), the stretch marks that trace a map from the belly where I hid those children from the world, down the legs that carried them, and still do.  I see the skin that never quite tans, with scars all over telling a story of my life, particularly the downs, but a few ups as well.  I see the teeth that aren't quite straight, but that form the smile that my children see and imitate (almost) every day.  I see a nose that took a hit with a softball, and has a flat bit to prove it.

I see this all, and I think, this is me.  This is the body that has carried me through 27 years of my life.  And I love it.  And now, I'm finally giving back.  I'm doing my best to nourish it, to feed it food that will make it stronger, not slow it down.  I'm stretching it and pulling it and testing it, making it stronger, more able to deal with the valleys, so it can climb more quickly to the top.  I'm pushing it, forcing it to run and run and run, so it can outrun the clouds when they inevitably come.    And it feels, so, good.


Now, when I look back at the last few years, I appreciate the times I had, but I look forward to a future that has more of a... well... future.  I feel like I am finally accepting this great gift of a machine of a body, one that has very predictable outcomes when it comes to making it strong.  I feel like I am finally filling out my skin, taking over every cell, saying this is me, this is me, this is mine.  Using it, loving it, working it.  I no longer reside just in my head, just in the reaction.  I've taken over the action, I've taken over my life.

Who knew it could feel so good to actually live your life?