My Resurrection

Somewhere between the two-dozen portolets and the sea of spandex, I realized that I was about as far outside of my comfort zone as I could get. What started as a lark one stormy night almost exactly five months before had led me to the starting line of the Towpath Marathon’s 10 K race. The air was crisp, the autumn leaves danced, and the anonymity of the throng of people helped calm my thudding heart. I’m sure I was the only one wearing nine-dollar Target running shoes. And clutching my i-pod as though my life depended on it. Really, it kind of did.

The gun went off. Or did it? Not really sure if there even was a starter’s pistol, but as the crowd surged forward I knew the race was underway. The beginning was treacherous. A sea of humanity jockeying for position and trying to set a personal pace. I ran unscathed through the first madness, settling in fairly quickly with a speed I knew I could keep. And then the smiling started. The sunrise was beautiful, pinks and oranges still tickling their way above the line of trees. And the road was flat, dipping only slightly to give me a view of the hundreds in front of me. We ran three miles like this, scuttling for position, passing and being passed. I never stopped giggling.

The real fun started on the Towpath trail, a crushed limestone snake of a thing that flanked the river. I ran under towering bridges and beneath the reddest of leaves. The day was simply gorgeous, dappled light playing on the river and the path ahead. The five-mile marker shocked me. I had no idea I had already run that far.

Who knew I would have some juice left to kick it into high gear for the last mile? I passed a few last opponents with the finish line in view. A glorious feeling, really, to cross those rubber mats at the end of six plus miles. And something I could have never believed about myself.

The adjustment mentally has been even harder than the physical exertions of molding my body into that of a runner. The weight was easy to lose. The calves tightened themselves. But my heart? That is a lot trickier to manipulate. That morning on the Towpath cemented what I myself could not: the feeling that I am a runner and I can accomplish things I never thought possible.

My new training has already begun: 13.1 miles is my next goal, a half-marathon. This sounds too ridiculous to say out loud. But secretly, I know I can make this magic happen. I am not the same woman who started that race on the Towpath. I’m really hitting my stride, it seems. The Resentments song on my i-pod says it all: “Just a step. One small step. A leap of faith. And a resurrection.”