The Inner Game of Running

Third time I’ve heard the starter’s pistol in my life. This time for the St. Malachi charity run downtown that it turns out I was totally unprepared for.

The beginning of a race is always tricky. I basically tried to get situated without falling in a pothole or getting mowed down by a more exuberant runner. And this time, we turned the first corner quickly and encountered a giant hill. I almost stopped right there. Avon Lake is among the flattest real estate in America, and I never train for hills. So from about thirty seconds in, till minute three or four, I was basically just trying to get to the outer lane so I could start walking. But something kept me going.

I made it up and over the Superior Bridge, sucking wind all the way. I finally caught my breath at the one-mile marker and kept chugging and churning toward the lake. For a cold March day immediately following a giant snowstorm, the race day surprised me with blue skies and clear streets.

The views were actually pretty spectacular and if I wasn’t so worried about where my next breath was coming from, I would have really enjoyed myself. We ran around the Brown’s Stadium and headed for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I knew that the turnaround was there; what I didn’t know was that it was on the far side and all the way down the 9th Street Pier.

Made it through the turnaround and that’s when the trouble started. Getting back to the finish line required a few hills. I didn’t notice the gradation so much on the way down, but man that hurt on the way back up. Minutes 36 through 46 were a sheer test of my will.

The inner game of running featured quite a cacophony in my head, me willing myself to keep moving. I quit a thousand times in those 10 minutes. I just kept saying “I’ll run to the stop sign” or “I’ll just run to that guy up there.” Quite a dialogue (make that tongue lashing) while my legs were turning to jelly and my breath was nowhere to be found.

I jogged back up over the Superior, but by this point I seemed more determined that I would actually keep running and finish the race. It wasn’t easy and it sure wasn’t pretty, but I finished five miles in just under fifty minutes.

The time and the t-shirt and the pizza at the end were hardly the best prizes of the day though. (Pizza as a post-race food? Really?) There is something really spectacular about doing the impossible, about doubting yourself and wanting to quit and KNOWING you are going to quit….and then NOT giving in.

It’s the Bible verse my dad always liked best: “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.” And it fits so well for running and for life. (And what would he say if he saw me racing, my bib number and hair flapping in the cold wind off the lake?)

It’s what I say when I run by myself: “Just keep churning.” And what I do when my kids drive me nuts. And what I think when my students do not listen.

There is something so powerful about making the impossible happen. About keeping up with the plan despite the odds. About finishing what you start.

Something so powerful that until today, I never really knew resided inside me.