My First 5K

I’m not sure how I got it into my head that I wanted to run. My whole life I had denied that this was the sport for me.  Through seven years of club and high school swimming I insisted I had chosen the sport because I did not want to run. Maybe it was the fact that Southern California lacks an abundance of public pools, or the fact that I saw running as a convenient way to get in shape just out my front door. It was probably grace and glamour of Katie Homes jogging through Boston in the opening credits of “Dawson’s Creek,” calling me to embrace my inner girl-next-door turned supermodel.

My first 5K was not actually my first 5K.  It was my third. I first began training for a mother-daughter 5K that was usurped by a handsome kidnapper – my husband stole me away to propose the weekend of the race.  He flew us to Boston, and while his proposal in the park was exhilarating and unforgettable, no running took place that weekend.

My second 5K happened later that year. I signed up for the Electric Run with some friends and family who were avid runners. The great appeal of this run was that it took place at a sane PM hour, rather than an early Saturday morning.  Months passed, but I couldn’t find the motivation to train. I had been taking classes sporadically at a local gym to prepare for the wedding, and I thought the race would motivate me to do more cardio. Instead, thoughts of running filled me with lethargy. This new goal turned out to be more of a deterrent than the motivation I’d anticipated.

The night of the race came, and I dreaded it. Our group dressed in neon yellow and flashing jewelry. We waited in the bustling crowd of nightmarishly costumed neon runners buzzing with excitement. Electronica filled the glow-in-the-dark atmosphere. We pushed forward in the crowd until finally, our wave was set to start. The buzzer went off, the ropes were lowered, and the crowd surged forward.

It was a disaster. My fellow runners were off at a full sprint, and my calves and lungs burned in protest by the time we rounded the first corner. I had to fall behind. My blessed mother-in-law to be took pity on me and stayed at my pace. When I was desperate to walk, she was encouraging. Her energy got me through. I attempted to run a few more times, and failed - my legs, my lungs, my blinding side cramp, all overwhelmed my pitiful and defeated will to push forward. When our course wound its way next to the next leg, no suggestion ever came with such relief as my mother-in-law’s encouragement to skip over the barrier and cut the distance of the race.

At the finish line, my relief was matched only by my disappointment in myself. I was the youngest in our group to race, yet the most out of shape.  Running the race had been impossible and, thanks to our short cut, I hadn’t even completed it.  Beaten, I resolved to close the running chapter of my life on a note of failure.

When I got married several months later, I was in my best shape since high school, but one that deteriorated quickly after a three-week dream honeymoon in Italy.  Upon returning home, I was determined to get back into shape. Really, I was high on fitness and wanted to continue what I had started before the honeymoon. As I gradually saw my body continue changing, my confidence grew. With confidence came a seed of hope: maybe I could learn to run after all.

This time, I decided I would train before signing up for a race. That way, I wouldn’t feel as pressured, and I would be able to go at my own pace. I downloaded the “Couch to 5K” and “Map My Run” apps, and I was off and – huffing and puffing.

On those first “runs,” I could barely jog the one minute intervals. I would find myself desperately watching the numbers count down the last 20 second of each of those minutes as I struggled to maintain forward movement. Running. Was. Hard.

Still, it was rewarding to see how quickly I improved. Within the first few workouts, I improved my distance by .8 of a mile. Each time the intervals got longer, my distance would decrease slightly as I adjusted. Inevitably, it inched back up around 2.5 and eventually up to 2.8.  Then one day I was suddenly hit by the surreal fact that I could run for intervals of 15 and 30 minutes straight. The impossible was becoming reality.  Then, it happened. My coworkers were signing up for a race. Sure, I was improving. But was I ready to face my failure again?

Leading up to the race, I set goals for myself. While I hoped to run it in less than 30 minutes, I wanted a goal I could sink my teeth into. I wanted to run it. No walking, I promised myself. No matter what. It may have been my third attempt, but it was the first time I was determined to conquer all 3.1 miles of asphalt.

As it turned out, I missed my start.  Trying to “get in the zone,” I was unaware that I was standing at the start for the 10K, not the 5K. Luckily, some more attentive onlookers kindly informed me that my race had started, and I had better catch up. And so I ran. I ran at my own pace, fueled by the music pumping in my ears and the thrill of passing many who had started before me. Go at your own pace. Just keep running. No matter what.  I clung to my mantras like an invisible rope pulling me forward.

When I finally saw the finish line, I wanted to speed up but my legs stubbornly refused to carry me any faster. I simply kept running, and running, and running. As I crossed the finish line, I was glad for my sunglasses. My eyes welled with tears, and my heart swelled with accomplishment. I had returned to the site of my failure, and this time, my determination and hard work were greater than the pain and the difficulty. I was not the fastest, not by far. Nor did I beat my goal time, coming in at just over 32 minutes. I didn’t care. After two years of struggle, I had finally run my first 5K.