Earlier today, I wrote about how my ice skating class has helped me realize why I love running so much. Incidentally, tonight I came across a little essay I wrote about "why I run" when I was trying to insert myself into a publicity campaign for last summer's New York City Half Marathon. So I thought I would share!
“Hurry up! She’s cooooooming!”
This last word disappears into a frenzy of whirling arms and legs that spiral frantically around the track while heads anxiously turn to look behind us. The year is 1997, and I am a freshman in a high school gym class that takes itself, in my opinion, far too seriously. Our teachers are incredibly fit and possess the stunning athletic prowess that I both long for and painfully lack. When they run with us on the outdoor track -- which they do, three days a week, in every kind of weather -- we are expected to keep up with them. When they lap us -- which they do, three days a week, in every kind of weather -- we lose points. And if we fail this gym class, we suffer the most terrible fate imaginable: we have to take it again.
I hated gym. I hated every second of the time we spend running on the dreaded track -- or worse, when it was raining, up and down the stairs of our school. As soon as I could, I signed myself up for bowling gym instead. Finally, blessedly, I was free of running forever.
Or so I thought. In my first year of college, I was surprised and a little dismayed to discover that I faintly missed the feeling of pushing my body farther than I thought possible, of quizzing my classmates on their history facts while we puffed and panted our way through those infamous runs. Secretly, I took to running a mile here and there around the university’s hilly campus at night, and I found that the solitary nature of running suited me better than the loud, sweaty crush of the exercise room at the gym. But I wasn’t a runner, I reminded myself sternly; I was just someone who preferred the outdoors to the elliptical machine.
Then I encountered Trisha Meili -- a woman better known to the public merely as “the
When I read I Am the Central Park Jogger, I was incredibly moved by Ms. Meili’s courage and determination. Improbably, something took root within me that I couldn’t expel or explain.
It was the urge to run a marathon.
The only things I had going for me were my dedication and my copy of The Non-Runner’s Guide to Marathon Training. Family, friends and classmates regarded me with a mixture of skepticism and awe. But the more I ran, the less room I had in my life for doubt and anxiety. As I trained, I found myself slipping out of my dorm room before the sun was up to run fourteen or sixteen or eighteen miles at a time. And as the marathon neared, I realized I didn’t recognize the girl whose reflection flashed by me as I jogged past store windows: She had become a runner.
It took me five hours, but I ran every step of my first marathon; running without stopping was a discipline I’d learned well in that freshman gym class. (Incidentally, if you’ve never seen anyone burst into tears from sheer joy, you’ve never seen a 5-hour marathon runner at the finish line.) I was unbelievably proud of what I had accomplished. Running had taken root within me -- and it had transformed my life.
We are all running for something. I run because I still have something to prove to my high school gym teachers, and to myself. I run because all it takes is some Dri-Fit shirts, a good pair of sneakers and a phenomenal dose of determination. I run so I can reward myself with Gatorade and a long shower. I run because there is strength inside me I never knew about until I hit the road for the first time. I run for Trisha Meili and every other female runner who paved the way for me. I run because I like knowing that my legs can take me wherever I want to go -- and I don’t stop until I reach the finish line.
1 comment:
Aw, this is nice. I remember when you were training and Dena thought it was a riot. And I remember when you finished! Yay!
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