My mom is a runner. And lately, I run. There's a difference you know.
She breathes in the course and the people and the event, and with her shoulders back and arms steadily moving beside her body she looks beautiful doing it. Not to mention that cute blonde ponytail bobbing up and down. She calls runners "her people," and loves to be in their company. They are all smiles, on and off the course, exchanging hellos and talking about past races. They are all so different and yet for a moment they are all accomplishing the same goal, albeit for different reasons. She's right, they are her people. She looks natural and radiant in their midst.
For being such a social person, it even surprises me that I'm such a hermit runner. I think it all stems back to a fun run I did when I was probably 10. People were cheering and I was running and before anyone knew it I had crossed the finish line in sobs. My parents couldn't figure out why I was crying until I said, between exhausted, crying breaths, "Everyone kept yelling at me to 'keep running' and 'run faster' and I was SO tired I wanted to stop!" Instead of feeling encouraged, I thought I was being commanded, and I think it's scarred me for life...or at least made me a very introverted runner ;)
Now mix my running-people-anxiety with a healthy dose of slouchy shoulders and first-race jitters and that's where you would find me on Saturday, when my Mom and I ran a half marathon together.
Running this race was one of my goals for 2013. A way, I had decided on New Year's Eve, that I could make peace and have control over my body once again. I had no way of knowing at the time that I would spend much of the next five months unable to exercise, and would go from 0 to 13.1 miles in a meager 5 weeks. But I did know at the time what I proved on Saturday: I can do hard things. My body, although tired and weak, is strong and able. And my spirit, my spirit is powerful.
The race was hard. My mom and I ran the first nine miles together and her mere presence kept me moving. I tried to match my breathing, my stride and my nourishing with hers. She is all good, people, that women is all good. At mile ten I could feel her body being pulled from my pace to race with the runners ahead, and since the cramping in my toes (which I later learned were blisters) were slowing me down, I was happy to see her fly ahead.
Three miles is not very significant, but at the end of this race it felt like a whole other marathon. The cramping, the exhaustion, the blisters, the mental battle. How was I going to make it? And where did I get the bright idea to run a half marathon?
And then it happened: her people started talking to me. A dear old man raised his hands high in the air and said, "Mile 11! We're almost there!" A runner on the sideline yelled, "You look beautiful, keep it up girl!" The photographers and race directors complimented me up one side and down a bad-postured other side. And the fans, mostly runners themselves, lined the course with banners and bells.
I devoured their words like a hungry (but weak) animal, and with each bite was more grateful for them. All of them. I saw them, but I really just saw my mom--her beautiful, refreshing and encouraging self. These were her people and they all got me through it.
I crossed the finish line, b-lined straight to the lady who would give me my medal, and then collapsed in James' arms with promises to never run again. I was overcome with emotion and gratitude for a body strong enough to finish this race, and felt like I had accomplished something greater than myself. I hobbled around for the rest of the day saying, "I'm so proud of me!"
And when I saw my mom again, I thanked her for being her awesome self. Maybe someday I'll be one of her people too. But for now, I'm just grateful for them.
And something else I'm grateful for? An awesome pit crew (thanks James and Dad), ice packs and ibuprofen. My knees hate my guts ;)
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