An Unwilling Spirit; August 18

In recent days I’ve wondered if I am really cut out for a half-marathon. I’ve given up on the idea of getting faster. I’ve given up on the idea of being able to run the entire distance, adopting a pattern of running five minutes and walking two. And lately, it seemed, I had given up on training.

Granted, backing off on a training program would be expected considering the need to make a few trips out West to visit my father while he was hospitalized and then to attend his memorial service. Giving in and being gentle with myself in the days between his death and the service was a wise choice and more than my training program was moved to the back burner.

I told myself I would pick up the routine with ferocity this week. Instead, I slept late on Monday and on Tuesday shared with someone that I still didn’t feel like training. Her response was grace-filled. “It’s okay. But instead of just staying put and feeling badly about it, why not just get outside?” Her advice was to take off the heart monitor, forget about the timers, the distance, the training schedule and just do whatever I felt like doing, except sitting on the sofa. She suggested I dress for running, just in case the running spirit should show itself. But my only goal would be to get outside and simply enjoy the fresh air and the sound of the late-summer cicadas, if only for ten minutes.

I went for a walk and tried a little running, but before very long, I was ready to quit. It wasn’t a matter of heart and lung capacity or that my legs were tired. I just didn’t feel like running. So I gave myself permission to run only when I felt like it and walk the rest of the way. Every now and then the running spirit would show up, but I managed to slap it down like a pesky mosquito.

About halfway through, I was slogging my way up a small hill and deciding when to quit when I noticed a young man running toward me. I was momentarily envious of his youth and his strength when I remembered that this was to be an outing without goals—without judgment. And about that moment he caught my eye, gave me a big grin, and a “thumbs up.” It was perfect. He too reminded me that this is supposed to be fun. I slowed to a walk until I reached home.

Today I headed out with a little more resolve. I was actually looking forward to my run, even though it was going to be my first long run in over a week. This time, the running spirit arrived full force. It was a good run. My time was better. My attitude was better. Now, instead of regretting past days of haphazard training, I’m looking forward to the next run. The running spirit has returned.

Speaking of spirits, my dad had a way of giving his head a slight shake whenever he heard something that surprised him. His eyes would sparkle and he wouldn’t say much, just, “Well. By golly.” Hearing that I was going to run a half-marathon surprised him and made him smile even if his only response was the standard, “Well. By golly.” I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to be different than my father. But among the things he gave me was a desire to try new things. I’m going to dedicate my run to him. Nothing dramatic—no schmaltzy speeches—no special t-shirt or anything. But when my spirit hits low spots along the route on run day, and I know it will, I’m going to do my best to remember the help I’ve had along the way. A smile, a “thumbs up,” a grin and a shake of the head. Well. By golly. I can do this.

Turtle Crossings; August 8

Why did the turtle cross the road? On our long group run this morning, a turtle about the size of the dinner plate crossed the path ahead of us. After the prerequisite jokes about whether we could outrace the turtle or not, the creature responded to the sound and fury of all those running shoes and tucked into its shell. Our family does “turtle rescues.” When we spot a turtle trying to cross a highway, if it’s safe to do so, we stop and carry it across. We started doing this shortly after adopting a pet turtle many years ago.

As we passed the turtle, I told the woman running alongside me about our pet turtle, who recently made the move to a turtle refuge—yes, a turtle refuge. And then amazingly I heard myself say it, “She was sweet.” Sweet? Our turtle, Speedy, was anything but sweet. From the first day we had her in our home we learned that Speedy was a turtle with attitude. Any time we tried to handle her, she would rear up and hiss at us with all her turtle might. Sweet? Hardly.

Maybe that’s the way forgiveness happens. It progresses slowly. Sometimes it needs help. Sometimes it chooses to tuck in and wait until it seems safe to try again. A few months without that smelly, grumpy turtle in our house and I can remember her as “sweet.” Time passes and events and words that once caused pain become less significant. I’m glad I joined this running journey. But my constant lament has been that I’m slow. I wish I ran more quickly. But maybe there’s an unclaimed power in a slow pace. Maybe more time on the trail is all I need.

No Bad Runners; July 18

When our daughter was young, we avoided the word “punishment” and talked instead about “consequences.” We tried to teach her that all our actions—the good and the not-so-good—carried consequences. We tried to reinforce that life is full of choices and that we each have to live with the consequences that arise from our actions. We often said that there was no such thing as a bad child—only a good child who made bad choices.

So this past week-end, I endured consequences. Funny, it felt more like punishment. I packed for our camping vacation/family reunion with every intention of keeping up my running schedule. And, I did pretty well on the first day. Despite waking up to a soaking wet tent—one of the consequences of pulling camping gear out of a 10-year storage—I put on my running shoes and got in the weekly long run. But after that, my dedication was gone. I won’t share the details, but let’s just say the path away from the running trail involved long, relaxing days with family and copious amounts of chips and potato salad. It was delightful and I went willingly.

But then came the consequences. After a week of nourishing myself at the family chip buffet and avoiding runs and cross-training, the schedule on Saturday called for a seven-mile run group run. I finished, but it was tough and for the rest of the day, I was in pain.

The challenge of course, is to figure out how to recover. It’s a good lesson for life. We make mistakes, we face the consequences, and then we choose how to get back on track. I celebrate a faith that has taught me that no matter how far off the trail I might wander, I am always invited to return and start again.

This week is a chance to start fresh. In whatever ways I have stumbled in my faith journey, I will start again. The consequences of my bad choices for preparing for a run are behind me. There are no bad runners, only good runners who make bad choices. This week, I start again.