On the Run

10 days ago, I completed the 500 Festival Mini Marathon in Indianapolis. I've had some time, now, to reflect on that experience, and what it meant, and what it means, and what it will mean in the future.

My Brooks running shoes; my second favorite shoe. A close second to my Chucks.

I've participated in this particular half marathon once before. I've mentioned that. 7 years ago was the last time. I had only two children then, and that was before my mother got sick. It was also before a slew of other life altering experiences, but I won't get in to those right now. In my previous post, The Carry, I talked about my emotions. I talked about carrying them, and how they are sometimes too much for me to handle. I put them in a suitcase and drag them around and they make life challenging. I have, however, figured out several ways to put the emotions down and to not carry them. One of these, is to run.

When I'm running, I'm not feeling any emotions. None. I'm not sure how that is possible and I can't explain it. It just is. Honestly, dear reader, I sometimes wish I could run all the time because then, I wouldn't have to feel things. I often times see my emotions as a weakness, but again, that's something I won't get in to right now. That's for another post.

Yes, when I'm running, I definitely feel things physically. My knees getting tired, my heart beating fast, the pace of my breath, how my feet hit the ground, my hip flexors getting sore, my lungs getting tired. I feel it all. My mind, however, does not wander to anything else. I'm focused on one thing which is the run. I'm not even focused on finishing the run because I know once I do, I'm going to start feeling those emotions again. I'm going to have to pick up that suitcase again and sometimes, some days, it's just heavy, and I don't want to carry it.

John Bingham, a running speaker and writer is quoted as saying, "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." When I signed up for this mini, I felt strong. I felt courageous. I felt that I had taken the first of countless steps toward the ultimate goal: finishing, and finishing strong on May 6th. In November, when I signed up, that is what the Mini meant: finishing and finishing strong.

While I'm running, it's just me. I can be surrounded by hundreds or thousands of people, but they aren't really there. I'm in my head, emotions turned off, and I can breathe. Running makes me feel like me. And it's just me, only me, whether it's for 12 minutes or 120 minutes. It's just me. It may sound strange, but when I'm running, I can breathe easy, whereas, when I'm not running, I often times cannot.

I love the Indy 500. I've lived in Indiana for almost 15 years, and I was a sucker for that race from the first time I heard "Gentleman, start your engines," live, and in person. There's nothing like it. The energy, the spirit of the race, the people, are all amazing facets in an event that is like no other. Running around the IMS as part of the Mini is something special.

Upon entering the track, the path takes the runner through a short tunnel, downhill, then uphill again, opening up to the track. What this signified for me, was, life. The ups and downs. The highs and lows. The knowns and unknowns. Once I reached the top of the hill, I was there, in the track, and the lanes opened up. Interestingly enough, it was at this point during the run that the clouds parted, and the sun shown. The black race track was at my feet and magnificent blue skies were above. Around me were other runners, but they just kinda melted away. It was me and the track. Nothing else. And I was me. And I was breathing. And the suitcase was miles away, back at the finish line. I knew it was waiting for me to pick it up again, yet, I wasn't thinking about it. I didn't need to. I only needed to run.

At mile 10, well outside of the track, my body grew tired. I was hungry and thirsty. I grabbed every water or Gatorade that was available, usually at every mile, and I pushed it. There were thousands of Gatorade paper cups around every pit stop, and used GU gel tubes everywhere. Those belonged to the ones that went before me. If they could do it, so could I. And I did it. And I did it well. I sprinted the last .1 miles, the last of what I had left. I crossed the finish line, and there it was; the suitcase. All my emotions flooded back, and I got teary, and I got happy. Because, you see, it was bittersweet. Finishing strong. Finishing as me. Finishing something that I had set my mind toward months early was amazing yet sad at the same time, because, what would I do now?

Here's what I'm doing. I'm not stopping. I'm running another half in November. The run is in me and calls to me every day. I'm 37 and I feel like I'm just getting started. I have one of those magnets on the back of my van. You know the kind, the 13.1 label. That's me. I've done it twice. I've done it well, and I intend to improve. My next goal? To have a 26.2 magnet. That's right. I'm going to work toward qualifying for the Chicago Marathon by the time I'm 40. And then, who knows? Because I need it. I need the run. I need to breathe. I need to put the suitcase down and just go.

Doris Brown, a pioneer in distance running once said, "When you put yourself on the line in a race and expose yourself to the unknown, you learn things about yourself that are very exciting." I'm doing it Doris. I'm learning. And I'm just getting started.