The Thoughts of a New Runner (Who Is Usually Quite Sane, I Promise)Posted: April 9, 2013
As I pulled on my tennis shoes, I had lovely thoughts like, “I feel great today. The weather is perfect for a nice 3-mile run.” Or “I’m going to glide like a gazelle across the pavement.”
I gave my husband and the boys a quick wave, put on the headphones, and left. I started a fast walk as I fiddled with my iPhone: music on Pandora; tracking the workout with MapMyRun. And I ran.
As I began, my steps fell in sync with the music. “I could run forever,” I thought.
.25 mile later, my breathing started to get ragged. “Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. I can do this.”
Breathing under control, I turned onto a gravel road and faced nothing but fields and a farmhouse. My legs became heavy, tired. I focused on my arms, imagining they were parts of a machine, pumping and pulling me forward.
The farmhouse was on my right, a small house with several out-buildings. “Probably for storing equipment,” I thought. But I read a book recently about a family of country boys that were buying women and killing them, storing them in buildings just like those. I moved to the other side of the road.
Halfway up a small hill, my calves were on fire. “What happens if they burn right off my body?”
Then I heard, “Distance. One. Mile. Time. Ten. Minutes. And. Forty-Three. Seconds.”
“It’s only been a mile?” I tried to pick up the pace, but my legs didn’t seem willing. “I’ll just do 2.5 miles instead of three,”I thought. And then, “No. Three miles this time. I’m doin’ it.”
Finally, I reached the turn-around point. I paused the app, stretching my calves and catching my breath. A truck rolled slowly over the top of the hill. “Oh great, they’re going to stop and ask if I need help. I probably look like I’m dying.” The truck passed without pause. “Well I guess they’ve never heard of small town kindness. What if I were dying?”
I tapped the Resume button and started running again. “Halfway done. I can do this.”
My thoughts wandered until I heard, “Distance. Two. Miles. Time. Twenty-one. Minutes. And. Fifty-eight. Seconds.”
My calves started to burn again. I felt the back of my ankles tightening. “I can’t do this anymore,” I thought.
The next song started playing: “Die Young” by Ke$ha. I thought about my son. Cystic Fibrosis. Stories from adults with CF, swearing that running is what keeps them healthy. Ke$ha sang, “We’re gonna die young.” I fought back the tears. Pounded fear into the pavement. With each stride I thought, “Not if I can help it.”
When I crossed our driveway, I heard, “Distance. Three. Miles.” I shut it off.
I was finished. I did it. I will do it again. For myself. For my son.