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Why a Marathon?
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The first thing people ask me when I announce my plans to run the Philly Marathon in November is why? And lately, after rolling out of bed before 7 am (and I am not a morning person), then huffing and puffing my way up the Great Hill in Central Park in this disgusting hot, humid, weather -- the air clouded with smog and smelling of trash mixed with manure from the all the horse-drawn carriages -- I ask myself the same question.
After all, I’m not a runner. I’ve hated it my whole life. I’m slow and it’s hard. In fact, when I was in 8th grade, after many a poor showing in any running-related athletic event, my classmates sarcastically nominated me most likely to run a marathon.
Now, I’ve gone through phases where I’ve started running, purely to get the sleek, athletic look of a runner. But eventually, realizing that running 2 miles a few days a week does not give you permission to carbo load, nor does it deliver cut legs and toned arms, I’d get frustrated, lose motivation, and quit. In recent years, I became more of a gym-goer, taking yoga classes, doing some spinning, and peddling away on the elliptical.
That all changed last year. Following a particularly painful breakup with a man I refer to as “He Whose Name We Dare Not Speak” -- I’ll spare you the details because I’m saving those for my other blog called “I Dated a Sociopath” -- I did what every woman in my position would: I fell apart.
I spent weeks crying, complaining, plotting revenge, and feeling hopeless, helpless, and overwhelmed by the strongest current of anger I’ve ever experienced. I was inconsolable, and every day I was only sinking lower and lower into a full-on depression. Then one beautiful sunny, summer day that I'd planned to spend holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself, utterly pathetic and desperately sad, a friend encouraged me to get outside and go for a walk, even if it was just for 10 minutes. But instead of a walk, I went on an anger-fueled run.
Even as I struggled to breathe -- who knew Central Park was so friggin hilly -- I felt a tremendous relief. So the next day, I went running again. And then again.
Okay, here’s where it gets a little touchy feely, so bear with me. As I kept running, I slowly got a little less stuck. Running also began to restoresome of my confidence, which was at an all-time low. There's something about tackling just one more mile when you think there's no way your legs or lungs can do it, that makes you feel like a rock star. And the internal cheering: "You can do this. You're almost there," was such a nice mental break from, "What's wrong with you? Why did you date such a loser? You're crazy." As I became less stuck, I was able to get the rest of my life back on track.
What I’ve come to realize is that running is a metaphor for, well, life. I know, I know, I said this part was cheesy. Yes, the endorphins helped, and changing my scenery was a mood booster for sure, and there are studies that say that just being exposed to nature can improve your outlook. But here’s the big thing that running gave me: Though I couldn’t have recognized at the “Oh my God, how can a person feel this bad moment” -- the difference between staying mired in crap and moving on, even if it’s just to the kitchen to get a glass of water, which is no small feat when you're in the grips of depression -- is simply a matter of putting one foot in front of the other and breathing. You see where I’m going with this right?
Running is nothing but: Left, right, left, breathe. That hill that sneaks up on you when you enter the top of the park seems insurmountable. But all it takes to get to the other side is putting one foot in front of the other and taking lots of deep breaths. And yes, it’s painful, and yes, I know it is just a hill in the park, but I think nearly every moment in life -- the bleakest especially -- are overcome the same way. And just like the hills, there will be others. Other guys, other setbacks, peaks, and crushing blows. But the good news is, I know I can take them on. How do I know it? Because I did, and I do. That was a year ago.
So what does one do with all this running minus the anger (well, I’m still kind of angry)? You find a goal to keep yourself motivated and to keep it interesting. And that’s the long, long answer to the question.
So, to recap: Why run a marathon? Because I can. At least I think I can. We’ll see. Watch what happens over the next 14 weeks in my countdown to the Philly Marathon.
seejenrun06 at 4:38:00 PM EDT Blog about this entry |
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Why a Marathon?
After all, I’m not a runner. I’ve hated it my whole life. I’m slow and it’s hard. In fact, when I was in 8th grade, after many a poor showing in any running-related athletic event, my classmates sarcastically nominated me most likely to run a marathon.
Now, I’ve gone through phases where I’ve started running, purely to get the sleek, athletic look of a runner. But eventually, realizing that running 2 miles a few days a week does not give you permission to carbo load, nor does it deliver cut legs and toned arms, I’d get frustrated, lose motivation, and quit. In recent years, I became more of a gym-goer, taking yoga classes, doing some spinning, and peddling away on the elliptical.
That all changed last year. Following a particularly painful breakup with a man I refer to as “He Whose Name We Dare Not Speak” -- I’ll spare you the details because I’m saving those for my other blog called “I Dated a Sociopath” -- I did what every woman in my position would: I fell apart.
I spent weeks crying, complaining, plotting revenge, and feeling hopeless, helpless, and overwhelmed by the strongest current of anger I’ve ever experienced. I was inconsolable, and every day I was only sinking lower and lower into a full-on depression. Then one beautiful sunny, summer day that I'd planned to spend holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself, utterly pathetic and desperately sad, a friend encouraged me to get outside and go for a walk, even if it was just for 10 minutes. But instead of a walk, I went on an anger-fueled run.
Even as I struggled to breathe -- who knew Central Park was so friggin hilly -- I felt a tremendous relief. So the next day, I went running again. And then again.
Okay, here’s where it gets a little touchy feely, so bear with me. As I kept running, I slowly got a little less stuck. Running also began to restoresome of my confidence, which was at an all-time low. There's something about tackling just one more mile when you think there's no way your legs or lungs can do it, that makes you feel like a rock star. And the internal cheering: "You can do this. You're almost there," was such a nice mental break from, "What's wrong with you? Why did you date such a loser? You're crazy." As I became less stuck, I was able to get the rest of my life back on track.
What I’ve come to realize is that running is a metaphor for, well, life. I know, I know, I said this part was cheesy. Yes, the endorphins helped, and changing my scenery was a mood booster for sure, and there are studies that say that just being exposed to nature can improve your outlook. But here’s the big thing that running gave me: Though I couldn’t have recognized at the “Oh my God, how can a person feel this bad moment” -- the difference between staying mired in crap and moving on, even if it’s just to the kitchen to get a glass of water, which is no small feat when you're in the grips of depression -- is simply a matter of putting one foot in front of the other and breathing. You see where I’m going with this right?
Running is nothing but: Left, right, left, breathe. That hill that sneaks up on you when you enter the top of the park seems insurmountable. But all it takes to get to the other side is putting one foot in front of the other and taking lots of deep breaths. And yes, it’s painful, and yes, I know it is just a hill in the park, but I think nearly every moment in life -- the bleakest especially -- are overcome the same way. And just like the hills, there will be others. Other guys, other setbacks, peaks, and crushing blows. But the good news is, I know I can take them on. How do I know it? Because I did, and I do. That was a year ago.
So what does one do with all this running minus the anger (well, I’m still kind of angry)? You find a goal to keep yourself motivated and to keep it interesting. And that’s the long, long answer to the question.
So, to recap: Why run a marathon? Because I can. At least I think I can. We’ll see. Watch what happens over the next 14 weeks in my countdown to the Philly Marathon.
seejenrun06 at 4:38:00 PM EDT Blog about this entry |
Add to del.icio.us | digg this
8/31/06 10:57 AM