numbers that start with two
Sometimes even after you do a thing, it's hard to conceive of it as doable. That's what today's 21 mile run felt like. We ran from before sunrise until afternoon; from City Hall in Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge, through Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, Gowanus, and Park Slope, inside Prospect Park, down Ocean Parkway to within a mile or so of Coney Island, and then all the way back again.
Three weeks ago, I ran 18 miles, and it was so very hard. From mile 14 onward, each footfall was excruciating; every inch of my body felt heavy and sore and tired. I wanted nothing more than to stop. I asked myself again and again what on earth had possessed me to sign up for a marathon, what on earth had made me think that I could do this crazy, superhuman thing. I was on the verge of tears and ready to walk it in, and it was only thanks to a pace group leader who told me that I was going to do this, that we were all going to do this together, and the state of mental fog that made it easier to listen than to think, that I managed to keep (walk/)running until the end.
No wonder, then, that I spent the better part of the last few days feeling incredibly nervous and fearful about today's scheduled 21 miles. My confidence was shot. If I felt that bad at mile 14, at mile 18, how was I ever going to make it 3 miles farther, to mile 21?
And today didn't begin particularly auspiciously either. I was late thanks to a subway snafu that was completely due to my own lack of knowledge of the subway system and stations, despite having lived here now for nearly five years, and was only saved from missing the start of the run because the program director was coincidentally also a few minutes late. My feet were slightly sore even before we started and began to hurt enough to notice very early in the run. Someone in my group needed a bathroom stop at mile two. My pace group leader tripped and fell twice in the first five miles. When we got to the first aid station at mile six, we had to help set it up before we could use it. By the time we set out for the eight mile out-and-back that marked the second of three segments in today's run, I was already feeling worn down; and by the time we reached our turnaround, still ten and a half miles to go, I really wasn't sure how I would run the same distance all over again.
Today I told myself, "I will find the strength. I will find a way." I told myself to set aside the pain, that it could wait for later. I told myself not to think about the distance, not to think about what remained, to just keep going, this minute, and then the next, and then the next. My group and I made jokes. We played alphabet games. We distracted each other with stories. We ran long stretches in silence, each caught up in her own inner battle against the distance. Eventually, I was able to say to myself, Yes, my feet hurt a whole lot; yes, my best right now is very, very slow; but actually, apart from that, I'm not doing too badly. The rest of my body is holding up. I'm still talking and cracking jokes. I don't feel as strong as I did at the end of last week's 11 mile run, but I'm doing a lot better than I was at mile 14 of that 18 miler.
At mile 17, I felt a second wind, which may have only manifested itself as maintaining the same snail's pace rather than slowing farther and a willingness to try to make red lights instead of wait for them. Somewhere around mile 18, reaching a new record distance, having already lost two of our group's five people, we passed by a casket shop, which in the moment seemed eminently appropriate. I think it was at mile 19 that I finally knew that I was going to finish. Crossing back across the Brooklyn Bridge, at the spot where the bridge changes from being above land to being above water, I reached mile 20, a landmark, a milestone, an old promise to myself ("walk 20 miles in a single day," conceived as I was turning 25, never in my life having run a single continuous mile) fulfilled. And then, weaving through the thick crowds on the Brooklyn Bridge's narrow pedestrian path, darting around swarms of tourists as bikes whizzed past inches away, finally, finally, Manhattan again and 21 miles done.
"We just ran 21 miles!" I exclaimed to my pace group leader, barely able to get the words out without my voice cracking. It felt so big, so momentous. It took my breath away. It was hard to believe that it was possible, let alone that it was done. And at long last, the distance of a marathon is close enough to touch. If I had had to go 5 more miles today, if a finish line and a medal and an accomplishment with a name had waited for me, I think I would have been able to do it. I feel like today I finally met some bare minimum requirement in marathon training, like I became eligible to start a marathon in a way I wasn't until I had proven that I could cover 20+ miles in a single session with my own two feet. To be able to do that and feel good mentally at the end was reassuring and affirmative.
I am six weeks, two races, one last long run, and a taper away from the start line of the New York City Marathon. Today, for the first time, I can imagine in a tangible way not just crossing the finish line, but traversing all those interminable miles in between. They aren't interminable. This is what I learned today. The distance is finite. As long as I keep going, as long as I don't stop, I can make it to the end.
[ 30 Goals Before Age 30 : 5/30 ]
Three weeks ago, I ran 18 miles, and it was so very hard. From mile 14 onward, each footfall was excruciating; every inch of my body felt heavy and sore and tired. I wanted nothing more than to stop. I asked myself again and again what on earth had possessed me to sign up for a marathon, what on earth had made me think that I could do this crazy, superhuman thing. I was on the verge of tears and ready to walk it in, and it was only thanks to a pace group leader who told me that I was going to do this, that we were all going to do this together, and the state of mental fog that made it easier to listen than to think, that I managed to keep (walk/)running until the end.
No wonder, then, that I spent the better part of the last few days feeling incredibly nervous and fearful about today's scheduled 21 miles. My confidence was shot. If I felt that bad at mile 14, at mile 18, how was I ever going to make it 3 miles farther, to mile 21?
And today didn't begin particularly auspiciously either. I was late thanks to a subway snafu that was completely due to my own lack of knowledge of the subway system and stations, despite having lived here now for nearly five years, and was only saved from missing the start of the run because the program director was coincidentally also a few minutes late. My feet were slightly sore even before we started and began to hurt enough to notice very early in the run. Someone in my group needed a bathroom stop at mile two. My pace group leader tripped and fell twice in the first five miles. When we got to the first aid station at mile six, we had to help set it up before we could use it. By the time we set out for the eight mile out-and-back that marked the second of three segments in today's run, I was already feeling worn down; and by the time we reached our turnaround, still ten and a half miles to go, I really wasn't sure how I would run the same distance all over again.
Today I told myself, "I will find the strength. I will find a way." I told myself to set aside the pain, that it could wait for later. I told myself not to think about the distance, not to think about what remained, to just keep going, this minute, and then the next, and then the next. My group and I made jokes. We played alphabet games. We distracted each other with stories. We ran long stretches in silence, each caught up in her own inner battle against the distance. Eventually, I was able to say to myself, Yes, my feet hurt a whole lot; yes, my best right now is very, very slow; but actually, apart from that, I'm not doing too badly. The rest of my body is holding up. I'm still talking and cracking jokes. I don't feel as strong as I did at the end of last week's 11 mile run, but I'm doing a lot better than I was at mile 14 of that 18 miler.
At mile 17, I felt a second wind, which may have only manifested itself as maintaining the same snail's pace rather than slowing farther and a willingness to try to make red lights instead of wait for them. Somewhere around mile 18, reaching a new record distance, having already lost two of our group's five people, we passed by a casket shop, which in the moment seemed eminently appropriate. I think it was at mile 19 that I finally knew that I was going to finish. Crossing back across the Brooklyn Bridge, at the spot where the bridge changes from being above land to being above water, I reached mile 20, a landmark, a milestone, an old promise to myself ("walk 20 miles in a single day," conceived as I was turning 25, never in my life having run a single continuous mile) fulfilled. And then, weaving through the thick crowds on the Brooklyn Bridge's narrow pedestrian path, darting around swarms of tourists as bikes whizzed past inches away, finally, finally, Manhattan again and 21 miles done.
"We just ran 21 miles!" I exclaimed to my pace group leader, barely able to get the words out without my voice cracking. It felt so big, so momentous. It took my breath away. It was hard to believe that it was possible, let alone that it was done. And at long last, the distance of a marathon is close enough to touch. If I had had to go 5 more miles today, if a finish line and a medal and an accomplishment with a name had waited for me, I think I would have been able to do it. I feel like today I finally met some bare minimum requirement in marathon training, like I became eligible to start a marathon in a way I wasn't until I had proven that I could cover 20+ miles in a single session with my own two feet. To be able to do that and feel good mentally at the end was reassuring and affirmative.
I am six weeks, two races, one last long run, and a taper away from the start line of the New York City Marathon. Today, for the first time, I can imagine in a tangible way not just crossing the finish line, but traversing all those interminable miles in between. They aren't interminable. This is what I learned today. The distance is finite. As long as I keep going, as long as I don't stop, I can make it to the end.
[ 30 Goals Before Age 30 : 5/30 ]