Counting Miles
I have spent the last 13 years of my life exercising. I fell in love with it in high school, studied it in college, and made it my favorite pastime as an adult.
For years, I worked out with number-specific goals in mind, usually related to my weight or dress size. I counted calories, tracked fat grams, and most recently, became obsessed with my carbohydrate intake. I recorded my time and calories burned on the treadmill and checked off days on the calendar. None of those numbers left me satisfied or motivated. In fact, they left me feeling just the opposite, drained, discouraged, and ready to quit. I realized last summer that something needed to change, namely, my frame of mind.
After watching one of my best friends train and complete a half marathon last year, going from virtually no regular exercise to running 25 miles a week, I was inspired. Holding Lesli’s medal in my hands and seeing the sense of accomplishment on her face, I knew this was something I could do. I had been working out for over a decade and had a decent bottom line of fitness. All I lacked was the official goal to achieve something new.
I shot Lesli a quick email in the fall and asked if she’d be interested in running a half marathon with me, specifically the Country Music Half Marathon in Nashville at the end of April. She agreed, and I immediately began training for something other than a goal weight.
The first thing I did was read the entire race website, rules, course information, and running tips. I needed to soak it in and make it real. Within minutes, it hit me that I was going to train for and run in a major marathon, even though it was going to be only 13.1 miles and not the full 26.2. Only 13.1 miles. Only.
The farthest I’d ever run, that I could recall, was maybe five miles. That was on a whim, a let’s-see-how-far-I-can-run spurt on the treadmill. I’d participated in 5Ks and charity walks, but nothing as grandiose as a half marathon, which, by the way, was expected to sell out with nearly 18,000 people.
It was clear to me that I would need training help. I got it from the leading runner’s magazine online and within minutes of entering in my statistics and race goals, I had a 12-week running plan that told me what days, how far and how fast to run. I taped the schedule to the kitchen cabinet next to the sink at eye level. It would be the first thing I looked at every morning as I creamed my coffee.
As each day passed, I ran and rested as the schedule dictated, and I marked each day off as it ended. Afternoons were spent at the Riverpark, where I have now memorized every curve, every tree, and every mile-marker on the path. I missed a couple of short two-mile runs, but I never missed a long run. It was my goal to finish the 13.1 miles in two and half hours and I took it seriously.
Before I knew it, race day had come. My husband and I traveled to Nashville the day before to meet up with Lesli, check in at the hotel, and drive the course. We also planned for a carbohydrate-loaded meal at an Italian restaurant, complete with all-you-can-eat ciabatta bread and olive oil. (Guilt free pasta and bread is reason enough to run a marathon.) Race day nerves set in as I set the alarm clock for 4:30 a.m. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve, wide awake and thinking too much.
With only a few hours of sleep and adrenaline keeping me upright, I stood with Lesli behind the starting line. We gave each other a hug, wished each other good luck, and said, "See you at the finish line!" With the bang of the starting gun, we were off. The energy among the 20,000-plus participants was palpable. I had never felt a rush of excitement like that before, and it’s something I knew I would crave again.
The first hour was mindless. I cranked out five miles without an ounce of sweat off my brow. The weather was good, my legs felt strong, and the surrounding crowd of runners kept me afloat.
Then I hit a hill. Nearly one entire mile uphill. I struggled to keep my pace, but all I needed to do was soak in the good wishes from people on the sidelines. Strangers cheered me on, and with that, I kept going.
I only slowed down for water breaks and didn’t need to walk a single leg of the race out of exhaustion. I checked my cell phone for time and encouraging text messages from my friends and family. With one mile left to run and less than 10 minutes short of my goal, my sister sent me a picture message of my nephews cheering me on. That was it. Not only was I going to finish, but I was going to finish strong and within my goal time.
As soon as I saw the finish line, my legs moved faster than they had in the last two hours, or in the last three months, for that matter. My eyes welled up as I completed my first half marathon at 2:29:23, with 37 seconds to spare within my goal time. As the volunteer placed the medal around my neck, she said, "Well done, racer! This will look great on you!"
I made rounds through the food bins and downed an entire bottle of water in minutes. I called people to tell them I’d finished and sat down on a grassy knoll to wait for Lesli. A feeling of accomplishment settled upon my heart. Suddenly, I felt stronger, leaner and tougher than I ever have.
As I watched other racers come through with their medals, I knew this was something I would do again. No more counting calories or carbs. Now, I’m counting miles.