As a distance runner, I had always seen the marathon distance as the final summit. 26.2 miles is an absurd distance to run, a true exercise in futility from many people's perspectives, even for some within the running world. However, as I approached my tenth year as a runner, the marathon no longer seemed insurmountable. My past experience and accomplishments had given me confidence, and I knew that running a marathon would be in the cards for me. I knew time to do it was fast approaching, and I truly believed I would be ready for it when it came.
But I had underestimated the marathon, and it broke me.
I felt like a fraud exposed while running those last six miles, during which my legs were aching, screaming, persistently reminding me of my insufficient training and half-hearted preparation. The sharp numbness that cut through my legs in my first training run back from the race shook my faith in my physical capabilities for the first time, and forced me to recognize that my body's limits were not as high as I had naively assumed. Upon the diagnosis I received from my orthopedist, I felt fear and hopelessness, like nothing of my running was in my control anymore.
Running, one of the few things I built in my life from the ground up that I was proud of, was all of a sudden lost from one race. The permanence of the situation struck fear in me, which simmered and birthed deep-seated bitterness and regret. I hated the marathon. I hated it for taking the running that I built over the years. I hated myself for my arrogance and naivety, and became ashamed of the race I ran. I would have done anything to turn back the hands of time and chosen not to run that day. How does one process such turmoil? Like most challenges I face in my life, I tried to turn away and forget about it. I did not run for two years afterwards. Every time running came up in conversation, I would leave the conversation or try to change the subject.
And yet all the while, I could never close the door on running completely. Based on my research, I had little faith that the rehab exercises that the doctor prescribed would help, but I would find myself doing them every now and then regardless. I never tried running, even one lap around the track, but I purchased a gym membership and regularly put myself through monotonous and miserable elliptical sessions. In my typical fashion, the whole thing was half-hearted and not as routine as it should have been, but I still did it. I couldn't kill my hope entirely it seems. In hindsight, it was clear as day: I still loved running, but I had also become too scared of losing running to face it anymore.
What ended up breaking the standstill for me was a tired cliche. A dream I had of me running. The wind in my hair, the grains of the trail under my feet, the cold in my gasping lungs - memories I had almost forgotten. I felt alive and complete in a way that I hadn't for a long time. When my eyes opened, that elation was quickly replaced by an overwhelming sense of hollowness. I could hardly focus on getting through my work and everything else I had going on that day, but as these mix of negative emotions stirred in me, one thought, one desire surfaced above all else: I want to run. That thought ate at me persistently, snowballing into something that began to overshadow the fear and hopelessness that had become my status quo. Within a week, I found myself in my running gear after work, standing at the start of a 400 meter loop at the nearby school.
My escalation of distance was excruciatingly slow and infuriatingly inconsistent for the months following. Some days I would be able to run four to five loops with no pain in my leg, but then the next day I would feel that familiar pain encroach within the first lap, as if I was back to square one once again. Those moments where I slid back hurt the most. The bitterness, regret, and fear I had been trying to run away from for years would stir again, and those feelings would feed into my laziness. I would take multiple days off when I really shouldn't have, and there were frequently moments I thought about giving up this effort altogether. But I think it's in those moments that I came to truly realize the pull running has on me. Running is not something I could ever so easily let go. It is a foundational part of who I am - past, present, and future, and there is still have so much for me to learn from it.
This past week I ran 20 miles with no pain. All were on the track, and I still have no idea how my leg will respond to hills and slopes, but never before would I have imagined I would be so elated to run 80 laps around the track. Running has once again taught me something new, something that was not so easy to learn, and I am forever grateful.
I plan to challenge the marathon distance again one day. Looking back on my race two years ago, almost everything that could have went wrong did go wrong. I was clearly not prepared enough, and had approached the distance arrogantly. But in hindsight, I am proud of what I accomplished in that race. The pain was truly unreal in those last miles, but I grit my teeth and pushed through it, just as I have learned to do throughout my years in the sport. The next time around, I will be more prepared. I have come out of this experience stronger than before. Maybe not physically (yet), but I now realize the marathon is so much more than that. I look forward to experiencing all that this simple, yet endlessly deep sport still has in store for me, and am eager to face the challenges ahead.
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| The shoes that have been with me through my rehab period |
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