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.
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