Why am I doing this?

I've always wanted to be a runner. Not only would running get (and keep) me in great shape, but I envied the runner's physique-- toned legs, a good butt--and their ability to eat a lot without gaining weight. I guess we could say vanity, and my love of food, fancied me to running. So a few years ago I set my sights on The Irish Jig, a local 5k set in the middle of March. At the time, I was a member of the YMCA and worked out religiously. I had strong muscles, a fast metabolism, not to mention a nice place to run in cold weather. I followed an eight week program using walk/run intervals and by March 17th I was ready to run my 3.1 miles. In fact, the week before, my boyfriend at the time ran the race course with me. I admit I struggled to keep up but my competitive nature wouldn't allow me to lose face in front of anyone. We finished the course and I nearly collapsed at the end. But...I finished. On race day, I made the amazing time of 27:02. My then-boyfriend was shocked.

After the race I stopped running. Without a specific goal to work toward, like that 5k, I didn't feel the urge to continue. I questioned how much I even liked running. But looking back, I'm wondering if it wasn't that I didn't like running so much as I didn't feel I was a natural. And being the perfectionist that I am, not being good at something right away makes me lose interest very quickly.

Jump forward two years: I have a new boyfriend, one who is not only naturally athletic but super supportive of my little attempts to be athletic as well. He's also aware that I haven't been too happy with my just-turned-35 physique (I can't just reign things in for a couple weeks anymore to fit into tight jeans?? What is this?!) and is my personal cheerleader for living a healthy, more active life. I mentioned that I'd like to try running again and last summer we went out together a couple times on this wicked trail he likes to run at Seidman Park. I gasped my way to the end the first time and the second try wasn't much better. I decided I definitely needed to practice running again if I was going to keep up with him. This past April for my birthday, he got me a subscription to Women's Health and paid my fee for a runner's group that ran eight weeks, with the ultimate goal to run the Reed's Lake 5k run.

Every Tuesday and Thursday night, without fail, I showed up to the group. We began by walking the first night and progressed to walk/run intervals. I found it interesting that just before this group, I'd been running occasional 1.5 to 2 miles, but suddenly an interval of run 8/walk 2 seemed really hard. What was up? I concluded that my competitive side was at work and, in the group, I was running slightly harder than I did on my own. I was often at the front of the pack and came to expect this of myself every week. Interestingly, I still did not feel like a runner. The group's leader complimented me every week, other members said I was fast, yet I still felt like an impostor. Did they not hear me wheezing and gasping? Could they not feel my heart beating out of control? Again, I came to the conclusion that in order to be a real runner, it had to be easy.

Race day arrived: Saturday, June 27, 2009. I made it through eight weeks of training and all the challenges that came with it, like the inability to sweat, therefore leaving my face red as a tomato and hot as a flame; the painful corns between my last two toes that never got a break because I waitress three nights a week; the bunion on my right toe that throbs without fail whenever I lace up; the realization that cotton t-shirts are not my friend. My friend Darcy and I planned to run this 5k together and we met up around 7am, excited over the palpable energy surrounding the race area. People everywhere--stretching, pinning their bibs, tightening their laces. All of these runners in one spot! Did they detect the little impostor in her bright green shorts, wearing a race watch and iPod (gifts provided by the rah-rah-rah! boyfriend)? I sure looked the part of a runner, that's half the battle, right? Besides, the night before I'd done some visualization: I imagined myself in those green shorts, running fluidly, kicking my heels up higher (another boyfriend tip) and running the race in a "negative split" (knowing the vocab makes me less of phony, yes?). I was READY!

Starting line: Darcy and I are waiting to begin. I get a surprise visit from my boyfriend who has a number pinned to his shirt and the orange computerized tag looped through his laces. "I came here to support you, baby!" and I simultaneously swoon and sweat. I was happy to share this with him, but worried that I'd disappoint. But, no time for those thoughts, it's 7:59 and we're about to start.

I felt fantastic the first two miles. I chatted with Darcy (something I don't generally do when running) and we passed many people. Around mile 2.5 I felt a slow gurgle in my lower abdomen, a slight cramping. I suddenly remembered the small cup of coffee I had with my toast and realized that the articles I had read about needing to use the "facilities" mid-race was happening to me. Why did I drink that coffee?? Crap, crap, crap, I thought. Literally. Just before mile 3 my boyfriend asks me how I'm doing (we had picked up speed by this point--following my "negative split" plan I was so intent on doing), "I'm ready for this to be OVER!" I sputtered out. Where was the strong finish I visualized the night before? I looked over at my beautiful friend Darcy who was barely breaking a sweat.

We came around the corner of the last stretch and I saw the big, red "FINISH" line banner down the road. We had one last cul-de-sac to run and my legs turned to jelly. Not only were my legs giving out, I was still terrified about the coffee's potential effect, not to mention the discomfort it was causing physically. "I can do this, I'm almost done, I'm not quitting"....my little mantras kept running through my head. As we rounded out the cul-de-sac, the Finish line was once again in sight, but it seemed SO far away! My plan the night before was, at this point, to really pick up the pace and fly to the end. Finish strong, I'd told myself. My boyfriend turns to me, "Ok, baby, pick up the pace...keep your strides long....you're doing great!" I wanted to kill him. "I'm going as FAST as I can!" I muttered angrily. Of course, I immediately felt guilty over snapping at him, the man who woke up at 6am to support me. It wasn't his fault I wasn't a real runner. But somehow I did manage to speed up slightly and ignore the lactic acid burning in my legs. "I can do it, I can do it..." My mantra continued. The banner was getting closer; I ran faster. My breath was short and shallow. Was I the only one wheezing?? By now the end was near and I sprinted as fast as I could. Finally, we crossed over and I was done.

It took me several minutes to catch my breath. I gulped my water and began to cool down. I could feel my disappointment rising as I recounted my not-so-strong finish. Once again, whatever I did just wasn't good enough. I was mad that my boyfriend and Darcy could have gone faster and longer and I was barely breathing the last half mile; I was pissed that I drank that coffee and had to run with the fear I was going to crap my pants; I was irritated that my negative split didn't go as smoothly as I'd planned. I looked around at all these runners and felt my phoniness creeping up. But then I noticed all the people spilling into the refreshment area after me. I had come in before all of them? Well, that had to count for something, not to mention I got my ass out of bed at 6am to run a race while most of the city slept. Just the fact that I did it mattered, right? As I passed a pop machine, I caught a glimpse of myself: green running shorts, wicking fabric tank, running shoes with an orange plastic tag looped through the laces. I did this. I ran a race. And I finished. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Next race we'll beat today's time. I smiled because I knew there would be a next race. Maybe with a little practice I'll begin to feel like a runner, but for today, I'm good enough just trying.

Once home, I looked up my time. 29:29. Under 30 just like I'd hoped. Maybe I do better than I give myself credit for. And just maybe I am not a phony...