After close to three months of training, I finished the Papa John's 10-miler yesterday. I'm glad I did it, but more honestly, I'm so glad it's over. There were several inspiring moments in the journey from Papa John's Cardinal Stadium to... well, BACK to Papa John's Cardinal Stadium, and, if you'll indulge me, I thought I might share a few.
STARTING LINE: This is the third year I've run this race, and the third year that, for whatever reason, I have to pee something awful at the starting line. In fact, I am 10 minutes behind the gun start because I am waiting in line with hundreds of other have-to-pee-or-I-can't-run runners. (Luckily, my time is based on my chip attached to my number and won't start until I do.) I follow the same pre-race routine as every other race I've run in, so I'm not real sure why this one causes me such bladder ache every year.
MILES 1-2: Boring, boring, boring. Just running, and dodging walkers, and running, and getting boxed in by people ALREADY walking, and running some more. The road is straight, the scenery is minimal. (snore)
JUST BEFORE MILE 3: This is when it starts to get cool. First, I see (and cheer loudly for) Papa John himself driving a really cool old chartreuse car. He's honking, the crowd is waving, he's probably feeling like the Mac-daddy of all pizza-sponsored 10-mile races.
Even cooler, though, are the winners that start to round the curve back toward the finish. I always see them about this time--me on my third mile, them on their (cough, cough) eighth miles. First up is the wheelchair racer. This guy is pushing with all his might on one of those specially designed race-chairs, and though sometimes these are people who've been paralyzed and have lost the use of their legs, the leader in this race appears to never have had legs to begin with. I am humbled and awe-inspired and moved to tears. (Crying when you're running is no easy feat, by the way.)
Then come the three overall leaders, two Kenyans and a tall Irish-looking white guy. They are neck-and-neck, which is the first time I've seen the leaders so close that early in the race. Very cool.
But the coolest moment of that mile comes just as I cross the 3-mile marker and enter Iroquois Park, long known as the most difficult part of this or any road race in Louisville. Enough seeded runners have passed by this point that the running crowd has stopped cheering--the novelty has worn off and we are back to the hard grind ahead. But having run this race three times now, I know what to expect, so I am looking for it. No one else recognizes it when it comes, so my voice is the first.
"There she is!" I shout as loud as my lungs let me, and there she goes: the first female runner. The leader of the pack of the fairer sex. The crowd, once again, goes wild.
MILE 4: This is when it starts to get really hard for me. As I enter the Park, I repeat a mantra in my head that actually seems to help: "Iroquois Park is no joke. Take it easy." It's not, and I do, but my legs seem to get heavier and heavier. I am beginning to struggle, but I know that if I walk in Iroquois Park, which is a three-mile loop in the middle of the race, I am setting myself up for a really difficult finish. To put it plainly, if I start walking now, I'll never get my momentum back.
I haven't accepted water yet by now--I train for miles and miles every weekend with no water stops, so why bother?--but about this time I decide to drink even if I'm not thirsty. At the next water stop, I grab a small bottle of water from a guy who is wearing a sweatshirt with the name of the school I teach at emblazoned on it, though I don't notice this until I've run past him. Seconds later I notice a former student to my left and shout her name as loud as I can. She's a cross country runner, and is handing out water as, I assume, some kind of community service opportunity.
She looks up, startled, and then sees that it is me. She screams my name as loud as she can, and I turn and see her mom, who is my school's cross country and track coach. For a brief stint at the first of the year, I worked out with the cross country team, so I know her fairly well. "Look at you!" she shouts, pointing good-naturedly at me.
It's this moment I know that I'll make it out of Iroquois Park without stopping.
MILE 5: Hard, but uneventful. Lots of rolling, gradual hills that don't look hard until you're in the middle of them.
MILE 6: What the hell was I thinking? This is ridiculous!! What kind of sadistic bastard DESIGNED this course, anyway?! The gradual, rolling hills of the last two miles turn into steep, never-ending hills that you think you'll conquer just around the bend, only then to find that the hill. keeps. going. It sucks. It really, really sucks.
MILE 7: Coming back down out of the Park, I remember that I love running and I am super strong and what a beautiful day it is and how lucky am I to get to do this?! Of course, this might be because I am now running downhill, but who's asking, really?
This mile also features my two favorite support signs, maybe ever. One is held by a small family--a mom and two little kids--who are probably there cheering on the dad. This teeny-weeny girl is holding a sign that says, "Daddy! Stop reading this and KEEP RUNNING!" I just love a sassy little girl sign.
The other one is held up by a man of significant age. He's standing next to a woman whose sign--"Kick Asphalt!"--is also funny, but not nearly as good as his. It's written in simple, black, block letters on a few sheets of layered white poster board, and it says, "Naked cheerleaders: Next Mile."
I laughed so hard it broke my stride.
MILE 8: Last weekend I ran 8 miles for my long run. When I came inside, Brian asked how my run went, like he always does, and I replied that it felt so good I thought I could have run longer.
So it's a little ironic that it's here, in the eighth mile, that I start to doubt my ability to finish and question my sanity for having begun. I am dragging, almost literally, and my legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each. It's a rough mile, but I get through it, and come to...
MILE 9: This mile goes by mostly uneventfully, though I start to feel almost done. It's about this time I start seeing sweaty, bed-headed people walking in the opposite direction of the running masses. Finishers. The finish line is close, I can feel it. But I won't get there before one last dreaded hill. It's one of the biggest in the race, and I know it's coming, because this is the same race route as before. The hill sits adjacent to Papa John's Cardinal Stadium, where the race will end, and people start to drop like flies all around me. They're done. They don't want to run this hill so they walk like they're on a Sunday walk in the park.
I refuse. Throughout this race, I've been repeating Japanese marathoner Haruki Murakami's running mantra in my mind: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional." I opt not to suffer, and instead focus my thoughts on why I am running this damn race in the first place. I set out to train after a difficult holiday season, one of the worst in my otherwise blessed life. I ran my way out of temporary depression, out of an almost all-consuming darkness. I ran myself through winter months and into the warm kiss of spring. And just as I am thinking all this, my iPod starts to play "Move Along" by the All-American Rejects, and I start to cry.
Context: I don't like the All-American Rejects. Their preppy, poppy sound reminds me of MTV and terrible reality TV and most everything that's wrong with American pop culture. I much prefer the soft sound of The Weepies or the hard driving sound of The Black Keys. But something about this particular song has always energized me, and it was during training for the Austin Marathon in 2008 that I listened to it for the first time. Back then, I was finishing up 9 miles, too, and at the time it was the longest I'd ever run. This was a very different run, but no less poignant, and the comparison of that moment to this one is not lost on me today.
More Context: I have exercise-induced asthma. The crying throws my breathing off, and for a few scary moments on the hard side of that hill, I don't think I'll be able to keep going. I ease off my stride a bit, and my breathing returns to normal, but like I said before: crying when running is no easy feat. I don't recommend it.
MILE 10: Easily the most fun mile of them all. By this point, every muscle in my body is screaming, "STOP!" but I'm no longer questioning whether I will. I am running hard into the stadium, and I remove my headphones, because here's where I know everybody feels like kind of a big deal. They are showing the runners on the Jumbotron and announcing names on the loudspeaker. I never was much of an athlete, but boy is it fun to run the perimeter of that stadium where those big-ass football players pound each other into ground beef in the fall.
Also, it's fun because it's about to be over.
I collect my Powerade and Panera bagel (Sin-amon Crunch--yum!) and my banana for consumption after my stomach gets settled again, which won't be for another 45 minutes. Though we tried to set up a rendezvous point, it's tough finding Brian and Emery for a while, and I start panicking a bit in my head. What if I never find them? I don't have a phone, or keys, or money, or... THERE THEY ARE!
Emery wiggles her way into my arms, and though it feels like all my muscles will rip apart, I hold her and squeeze her and kiss Brian squarely on the mouth.
This is a good day, maybe the best kind of day, and the fact that I won't be able to climb stairs normally for the better part of a week after this has not yet crossed my mind. For now, I am happy, blissfully, uncomplicatedly happy, and life is a beautiful thing once more.
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