I know what you’re thinking: Why would any sane person spend their Friday free time running 10 miles? While my sanity is undoubtedly debatable, I signed up for a half marathon about four months ago, and have been training ever since. No, I’m not one of those super-fit, super-lean, super-healthy athletes (hence the cheeseburger and beer). I’ve got a few pounds to lose and I actually don’t really care what my finish time is on race day, as long as I am within the four hour time limit and don’t have to get escorted to the sidelines in a golf cart (yes, they actually do that). But I do consider myself an athlete. Sort of.
I come from a large family, and my parents enrolled each of us kids in a myriad of sports teams growing up. You name it, I did it. I got a lot out of those activities: My photo in the local section of the newspaper during a lesson at the sailing center, just seconds after a near run-in with a yacht (not pictured); a small role as Toy Soldier #7 in The Nutcracker, which had less to do with any actual talent in my ballet shoes and more to do with my 5’10” frame; and an array of multi-colored ribbons from various swim meets. I also learned the importance of teamwork and self-discipline, values I still carry with me today. What I didn’t learn, however, was speed or hand-eye coordination.
Fast forward a dozen or so years and here I am, preparing for a half marathon. I found a free online training program that caters to rookie runners like me — no pressure to go fast, no recommendations to buy expensive, unnecessary training gear. Just me and the road, being lapped by grandpas left and right as I prepare myself for the Sarasota Music Half Marathon: 13.1 miles of February Florida air surrounded by more than 20 live bands, a Girl Scout cookie “aid station,” and even a free beer handout towards the last leg of the race.
For me, running is a humbling experience. No matter how stubborn I am and how hard I tend to push myself, running proves to me that my body is sometimes simply incapable of certain things. And when I push through them anyway, I will inevitably hurt myself and be forced to stop.
Running is also my little dose of serenity. Going faster on my feet helps the rest of me slow down. In my months of training, I've learned to embrace the way each run slows me down enough to truly absorb my surroundings: The aromas of a slow-roasted dinner or a freshly finished load of laundry wafting towards me from a neighbor’s open window; the spectacle of an osprey retreating from the water clutching her latest catch; the melody of the Motown music drifting from the speakers of the hot dog stand owner on the corner of Beach Drive. It’s all right there, waiting for me to take it in.
My stingray shuffle-like jog may not compare to half of the other people pounding the pavement along Coffee Pot Boulevard, but I’m having fun doing it. And I sure as hell am learning a lot.
I contemplate this as I drain the last bit of beer from my glass. Is this what they mean by “carb-loading?”
I smile and order another.
This article appears in Feb 2-9, 2017.
