The Long Run

It was Columbus Day when I made the decision to train for a half- marathon.

After dropping Emmet off at day care, I used my day off to go to the gym for one of my sporadic, half-hearted workouts, which were really more of an excuse to read People magazine.  I rationalized that if my body was exercising, my brain was allowed to slack off.   As I pedaled lethargically on an exercise bike, barely breaking a sweat, I realized my workouts needed a boost.  After Emmet was born, my life felt hectic as I adjusted to motherhood, returned to work, and moved to a new house and community.   Any semblance of an exercise routine became a casualty in my redefined life.

I had decided I would hire someone to help me jump start my workout regimen, so I approached the girl behind the desk at the gym.  I told her I needed a trainer who would kick my ass.

“Are you training for something particular,” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Like a marathon or a half-marathon or a triathalon or...” she continued.

“No, I just need someone to whip me back into shape,” I interrupted.  “I’m trying to lose my baby weight.”

“Oh, congratulations! How old is the baby?”

“Two,” I told her.

“Two months?  Oh, how sweet! I love little…”

“Two years,” I muttered.

“Oh,” she replied.

But her suggestion had planted a seed that I realized had been germinating for some time.   Two friends had recently announced their entries into half marathons, both self-proclaimed “non-runners,” who had simply decided to train and run.  Was it really that simple?

It’s not like I had never run before.   As a matter of course, I had been a member of the New York Road Runners Club when I lived in New York City, primarily running the 5K races, the most notable of which I threw up at the finish line.  But my running career was inhibited by a couple things: one, I would only run between the temperatures of 65 and 72 degrees.  A few childhood asthma attacks during cold-weather soccer games had scared me away from chilly outdoor activity.  Two, running bored me.  My MP3 player only held about twelve songs, so when the music ran out, so did my interest.

But both technology and my life had made marked progress in the intervening years and I wondered if it wasn’t time to give running another shot.

I went home and Googled “half-marathon training schedules,” just to get a sense of what this venture might entail.  Most of the “novice” training schedules suggested a 16-week training period, with reasonable 3-4 mile runs scheduled two or three times a week, culminating in a “long run” each weekend.  The long run made me nervous.   It started out innocently enough: three miles the first weekend, four the second weekend.   But with each passing week, a mile or so was added, up until the race day of 13.1 miles.   I honestly couldn’t imagine being able to do it.   It reminded me of how I felt before giving birth: while I knew that people did it all the time, I couldn’t fathom how I would actually do it.   But I decided to trust my body, yet again, and sign up for a race. The Miami half marathon was the most obvious choice, being about 17 weeks away, with a climate that met my atmospheric requirements.

The very next day, I began to run.  That first day I ran two miles, ten laps around the man made lake at the JCC.  Last week, barely 3 months later, I ran 11 miles: the distance between Greenwich, CT and the far side of White Plains, New York.  The butterflies I feel each weekend before beginning my new longest run ever is rectified by the pride I feel at the end of my runs, having smashed my own records.  My friend Matt, who has run 10+ marathons, says that by the time you actually get to the race, you’ve already arrived at the reward.  

I’m not there yet.  Right now, the finish line is still three weeks away, but I’m feeling good about how it looks in the long run.