At 6:20 a.m. yesterday morning, I get out of my car to start my Saturday run. It is pitch black and just shy of bitterly cold. I am filled with an emotion that I am not used to: I am afraid of what the next couple of hours will bring.
The anticipation of extreme exertion is complex. At the start of a half-marathon race, I feel excited, committed, and hopeful. I am resigned that it will be demanding but the energy of the event overshadows everything else. I prepare with structure and discipline – long, slow runs and quarter mile splits at the local middle school track. The idea that I will not win my age and gender group haunts me.
It is silly to care about winning because I am slow. My years of 8-minute-mile marathons are decades behind me. These days, the footsteps of Father Time are right behind me, and their cadence is quicker, and their strides longer, each year. But pride and competitiveness are not easy to extricate yourself from – even if I wanted to.
Knowing that the pandemic had extinguished the possibility of an organized race left me in a quandary. It would be easy to cast off the event like so many other discarded rituals and conventions. Gone are the days of professional hair care, luxuriant pedicures, and recreational mall shopping. The assumption that special holidays and events will be shared with friends and family has disappeared. I have eliminated extravagances and pared the accoutrements of life down to their core. But in the face of external and self-imposed austerity, I cling to the vestige of what is still controllable. I can still run a long distance; well, at least what is long for a 65-year-old.
I prepared for my solo half marathon with diligence and determination but without exactitude. In September, I started increasing my Saturday runs by ten minutes each week. I ran a couple of two hour runs, heartened not by my speed but by the fact that I did not get injured. I picked a Saturday in December that coincided with familiar races in past years. I got a reasonably good night’s sleep before my solitary slog, but I still feel ill-prepared.
As I begin to run, I open my Audible app and pray that the story will engross me more than the distance will exert me. My legs feel solid in an elderly sort of way. Within minutes, the chilly air mysteriously morphs to refreshing. After the first hour, the breaking dawn allows me to turn off my flashlight, and the newness of the morning elevates my spirit. The path is familiar and comforting; I have run portions of the route hundreds of times.
I welcome the unfaltering rhythm of my footsteps, though they slow and shorten with the miles. I feel solid and confident at two hours, so I select a longer route than I intended. But within minutes, my self-confidence drains with mind-numbing exertion, and I still have a long way to go. In the final half hour, my body begins to ache with glycogen depletion coined “bonking” by extreme athletes. I begin to bend over with fatigue, and I cannot wait to be done.
It occurs to me that I could walk, but that only delays completion. So, I slog forward, my feet barely elevating above the pavement. I finally round the final bend in the road, searching for my parked car with desperation fueled by physical anguish. I curse my age, my lack of athleticism, and my belief that this was a good idea. With my final steps, I fumble in my pocket for my car keys, relief eclipsing agony. I am done.
Hours later, when I am fully hydrated and fueled, I bask in the glow of accomplishment fortified by Advil. My run was longer than I had intended by a couple of miles. I am disappointed with my time but heartened that a fifteen-mile run is still within my grasp. Long distant running has always been about possibility and attainment for me. It reminds me that what seems unlikely or even impossible is achievable.
Though to be fair, it takes a lot longer to get there than it used to.