Anyway, this isn't about the misery. It's about running.
To me, there's a difference between jogging and running. Jogging is an exercise for sustaining a raised heart rate, done at a pace dictated by both fitness and comfort. What I do is jogging. Not very well, but I do it.
BLAZIN'!
Running, on the other hand, is using your legs to go as fast as you can from Point A to Point B—preferably faster than other people. You jog for your health; you run for your life.
My mother ran when she was young. She was, as we were stunned to learn, a state champion hurdler. In retrospect it makes sense—5'9" at her tallest, legs longer than any of her four kids'—but for the longest time we only knew that she played basketball in high school. The hurdling title is something we didn't find out until a few years ago, and even then she only mentioned it casually in conversation, to the point where it was like, "wait, what?!" You would think that would come out, right? Well, so did we.
To hear my mother tell it, one day someone came to the school and asked if any of the girls were interested in running track at state. No training or anything like that, just, hey, wanna do it? She did, and she ended up beating the other girls. And, like, that was it. She may have been slow-playing this just a tad, but the gist was that the qualification process was virtually nonexistent, and I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.
It'll probably come as a shock to you, but in small-town Oklahoma in the 1960s, girls' athletics were not that big of a deal. Their records only go back to 1972 (boys' track, meanwhile, goes back to the '40s), so the only way to know if any of this is true was to hear it from her. Oh, and the medal she got for winning. We found that medal as we cleaned out her condo in February. That was the first time I had ever seen it. I'm glad she kept it.
Anyway, back to her story. She said the part she'd remember most was the exhilaration that came from the roar of the crowd as she sprinted to the finish, knowing (hoping?) that they were cheering for her. For me at the time, she may as well have been talking about flying to space: not a foreign concept, per se, but one I could say with a tremendous amount of confidence I'd never get to experience myself. But it sounded pretty damned cool.
For the longest time—like, my entire 20s—I didn't think I could run; that it was just a thing other people could do because it was natural to them in a way that wasn't natural to me. In retrospect, total nonsense, but definitely an easy thing to convince yourself of at 280 pounds when the rest of your peers (including siblings) are in comparatively stellar shape. At that point it was only a matter of when I'd be hitting three bills on the scale. I wasn't looking forward to it, but gosh, 280 pounds? In my 30s? I'd rather someone watch me eat that burger and drink that beer than watch me try to run that mile. At least at a bar, I looked like I belonged there.
It's a god-damned shame that I didn't come off that immaturity sooner, that it took such a gigantic loss to get me moving. Everything my mom described about that race—everything that stuck with her, even decades after her last run—was true.
Her last few months were tough. Her health hadn't been a strong suit for a long time, but when she got sick, it overwhelmed her, even before she was confined to a hospital bed. She couldn't take care of herself anymore. That wasn't just tough on us; it was tough on her. By the middle of November she could barely walk without assistance. By the time hospitalization came, even with help, walking around the hall would exhaust her. She felt a deep shame from this. She shouldn't have, but at the same time, it would embarrass me too.
I started walking because I finally had the energy to do it after getting clean. What kept me walking was—and remains—the suddenly acute awareness that the amount of days I have left with hospitable weather and good health is a finite (if not definite, thank god) number. So if nothing else it's a moral obligation to take advantage of that opportunity.
I started jogging because I thought I could. That notion lasted a quarter-mile. With the encouragement of family and friends, I stuck with it until it lasted a lot longer. What also kept me running was—and remains—fear: the fear that I will one day no longer be able to take care of myself. I know that day will come no matter what I do. It's just my duty to stave it off for as long as possible.
This is what "staving it off" looks like, and despite what you must be thinking, I'm pretty sure it's worth it?
I've gotten to hear that roar. I've finished two 5Ks, and I've already planned two 10Ks. Crossing the finish line while even a hundred people watch is a surreal, buoying experience.
The crowds are one thing—the run is another. And on the rare night I've got anything left in my tank at the end of my jog, I'll sprint to the finish, limbs flying, air whooshing past my ears. It makes me think that perhaps, just perhaps, there's a by-god runner inside me too, courtesy of my mom. And in those fleeting moments, I finally feel that exhilaration of the run she talked about, and I wish with an unholy ache in my heart that I could tell her all about it.
