After training for the 10K since January, it was a bit surreal to watch the first heat of amazing gazelle-like runners blast through the starting line and know that in 50 minutes, my heat would start and I’d be following them (at more than half speed I might add).  My running group turned out in full force.  The excitement was tangible.  I was especially excited that we were able to find a parking spot only about a mile away from the race’s start.  Unfortunately, two friends who tried to show up later to cheer me on at the finish line were unable to find any parking whatsoever, and drove around for 45 minutes before giving up.  35,000 people + downtown parking:  interesting combination.

In December of 2009, I distinctly remember talking to Kate Hall about the mess my life was.  We were having coffee and discussing anything other than motherhood, and she mentioned she was training for the 10K with a team called Run Like A Mother.  She said, “You should sign up!”  and I said, “Sure, why not?”

Why not indeed.  First, I’m not a runner. I’ve never liked it.  My legs are short, my stride is ridiculous, my arches hurt, I get shin splints, I have a weak left ankle.  I’m about to turn 39.  Did I mention I never ran much?  The most I’d ever done was training badly for a 5K, and most anyone in decent cardiovascular shape can wing that.  Even so, it nearly killed me.  Ask Julie. 

Summoning blind faith in the words of our trainer, who promised if we followed her plan we would all make it, I started training.  I was skeptical.  Surprisingly, I never hated the runs because we started with a run/walk combo, and the longer runs were on Saturdays, with a large group of mothers in varying degrees of shape and health.  Up until we started running 5 miles, I was able to chat through the runs, exchange stories about kids and dogs and husbands, divorces, second husbands, cars, foot problems and what kind of running shoes fit best for short fat women.  The time flew.

I trained.  When it rained, I ran on the Hamster Wheel From Hell (the indoor track at the Y).  I ran in snow, I tried not to kill myself on slush, and I ran when it was so cold my nose cracked and bled.  Oddly enough, I enjoyed it.  I never missed a training run until last Saturday, when I hurt my ankle running in my neighborhood. Laura sternly told me, “Run the 6 mile training run this week, or run the Monument Avenue 10K.  But you’re not going to run both of them, so pick what’s important to you.”  I chose the race, of course. 

The training began to take on a life of its own, a meaning of its own.  Here was something that was very difficult for me.  I was scared to start, mortified that I would fail, committed to finishing.  My only goals:  run the entire time, and finish.  I was having trouble matching my internal picture of myself to someone who could run any distance at all, even if it was only 6.2 miles.  I began to associate today’s race, and crossing the finish line, with the life I’ve been living for the last 9 months.  If I could run this race - without stopping, without faltering - and cross the finish line, I could do anything.  Each time I hit a new milestone - 3 miles in training, 3.5, 4, one stunning afternoon where I went 5 miles in 50 minutes - I felt stronger, better, more focused.  The stress of the week, my frustrations with life in general - they all melted away and nothing else mattered but the music in my ears and my feet on the pavement. 

The 10K here is fairly well-known.  People from all over come to run it.  Seeing a throng of 20,000 people in front of me on Monument Avenue was mind-blowing.  Every couple of blocks, a different band played.  Thousands line the street to cheer and clap.  Homemade signs with note of encouragement litter the telephone poles or are mounted on sticks.  For a moment, everyone cheers for everyone else.  When I finally was released from the starting gate, I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it.  By mile 2, I was between my two running buddies.  I tried to keep Jenn’s Run Like A Mother skirt in my view as both eye candy and inspiration (she has a cute butt).  Running alone was weird in a crowd that huge, but I liked it. I watched a guy dressed like Darth Vader (with a huge papier-mache Death Star hanging over his head!) run.  I saw the Wizard of Oz team, including one poor sucker who was wearing a huge tornado over his body made out of what looked like something heavy.  Girls ran in tutus (some men, too).  One girl ran dressed as a mermaid complete with a tiny little shell bikini top.  Did I mention it was 34 degrees when we started running?  Ketchup and Mustard were in front of me for a while.  Two guys dressed entirely in lime green stretch suits (including over their faces) were unfortunately in front of me as well - that was far more detail of someone’s body than I ever wanted to see. . . .

Heading back at Mile 3, I faltered and played mental games with myself.  I checked in with myself.  Feet okay?  Check.  Ankle swollen?  Nope.  Dehydration level?  Negligible.  Fullness of bladder?  All systems go.  Then I checked out all the “for sale” signs on Monument and indulged fantasies of myself raising Lily and Arden on one of the most famous streets in Richmond, tucked behind leaded glass windows or terracotta roof tiles and Spanish arches.  It got me to mile 6. 

With only .2 miles to go, I summoned the last bit of energy I had and sprinted.  I spent some time trying to find my friend’s faces as I didn’t know they’d been unable to find parking.  Then I just ran.  I crossed the finish line. I did it in 1:08:28.  I was hoping to break an hour, but I took it slow because of my ankle.  Crossing the line, I wept.  My sister would have been mortified.  It was mostly happy tears; tears of gratitude for my body that enabled me to get through it, gratitude for the training team, pure unadulterated joy that I had accomplished something that was, well, freakin’ hard for me.  For a few moments, I was invincible, superhuman, able to leap divorces and foreclosures in a single bound. 

Reality set back in quickly enough, but those few minutes were truly amazing.  Hugging my training teammates, we all whooped and hollered and acted like fools.  Then we walked back to the car and went our separate ways.

I’ll probably do a 5K in a couple of weeks.  Pam, one of my running buddies, wants to work on her speed for 5ks and that sounds like a great idea to me.  I don’t want to stop running, but I’m not going to go race crazy, either.  Those moments of superhero status are like crack cocaine for the self-esteem impaired.  Mama wants some more.