30 years from now when running is steadier and slightly more difficult and I'm left to remind myself of truly great moments, I will close my eyes and remember what it felt like to have 3 minutes alone, just after the Runner's Mass (at Our Lady of Hope Church, just shy of the Broad Street Run start line) ended, seated in the third pew back on the left, hidden in the shadows of the eves above, eyes closed, focused inward. The stillness of that moment fell around me like a hug home from war that I needed more than I knew. I sat straight with my back against the old wood and my feet balanced on the kneeler, eyes forward and closed, praying so fiercely for clarity, health and peace that there were tears on my cheeks before I knew enough to wipe them away.
In the thick of uncertainty, I suddenly found myself grounded by the string of imperfect choices that brought me to that place at that time in the middle of an unfamiliar section of the city amidst 30,000 other people prepared to run in the same direction.
It is only in approaching the starting line when I fully realized the enormity of this moment. More than just 10 miles; more than another race; and truly more than a comeback - this would be my reminder that no matter the task ahead, it will never be greater than the strength within. And so, 6 minutes and 37 seconds after the elite runners set off down broad street to break a few records, I set out after them to break a few of my own.
Notoriously a hater of 5K's, the first three miles of any distance run usually make me regret pinning on the bib in the first place. This year's Broad Street Run was no different. It was a battle where I maintained miles south of 8 minutes and felt even the slightest elevation, deep in my hamstrings, through the Lehigh Drop Off (you have to run this race to understand what it feels like to finally hit Broad and Lehigh and watch the thousands of runners in front of you drop off the face of the earth).
Those first 3 miles are crowded, on Broad and the sidewalks that line it, and in that stampede you are confronted with respect among runners. No one wants an injury and no one wants to cause an injury, so we step gingerly around those in front of us, check over our left shoulders as we merge and linger a second longer to apologize for the inevitable pointy elbow to elbow contact. Yes, those first 3 miles are full of distraction from the crowds, your breathing and the outfits of fellow runners and before you know it, you've finished your first 5k and are sliding successfully into a distance run. Mile 3.1 held my new personal best for a 5k: 23 minutes flat. Seeing that news flash across my Garmin flipped on the switch (out of the dark and into the light, so to speak) and pushed me like a strong wind at my back. At this point, I had 3 members of our original 8 running at my left, right and just ahead - all focused and pulling each other forward.
A few of my teammates ran ahead, then, and another fell behind - leaving me with a final "You should be way ahead of me by now" push and a few miles to feel safe in the tide; to relish in the 81 minutes of untouchable.
Miles 4 and 5 contained such adrenalin from Lehigh approaching City Hall, the crowds were loud and specific, the way you need them mid-race, the water stations were smooth and the signs read like a story. There were cheers from inside the wave of runners that spiked chills up my back because it's moments when the guy next to you is struggling and screaming "Come on Runners!!!!" when you know you're past the race and into the movement.
Rounding City Hall is like a party that you sprint through, carried on adrenalin and all of the new faces hanging over railings and waiting for high fives and screaming out your bib number. These people are clearly seasoned race attendees because they get that individualizing even the smallest cheer pumps so much excitement into a runner that the runner may actually puke/cry/or scream at that moment. And then, just as suddenly as you began, you are on the downside of the Ten Mile Run, the crowds thin out a little bit and, once again, it is just you, your aching achilles, the pavement and two milestones left: Seeing your sign at Catharine and friends at Oregon.
Approaching Catharine, I saw my father first - staring out into the crowd, searching for me, camera ready. Just beyond him, my mom and husband, sign in hand, ready to pounce. Yet no one saw me and I had no energy to scream to them. 4 high fives later, Catharine was in the distance by a few blocks and I was still smiling the same way I would when I saw my grandfather arrive minutes before one of my basketball games was about to start in high school. It is a feeling of certainty in my ability to accomplish the task at hand and a sense of the Jerry-Maguire-You-Complete-Me phenomenon.
Oregon brought more cheers, a huge crowd, high fives and a near skinned knee as I got so excited to see everyone that I almost took myself and another runner down. Focus escaped me momentarily. But only momentarily.
And then there were only 2 miles left. 16 minutes and the thought, "you can do anything for 16 minutes" repeated over and over again. 8 minutes later, the Naval Yard was in sight. 4 minutes after that the crowd was so intense I have chills writing about it nearly a week later. 2 minutes and the arches sprung out of nowhere and I was in the .25 mile sprint of my life, through crowds, walkers, slow runners, pukers, jogging strollers, ankle pain, numbness, fatigue and sheer jitters, to the finish line. I crossed 81 minutes after I began, walked a few feet, stopped, turned around and watched others finishers cross that line - smiling at whatever goal had just been met. And I cried again. Knowing I would be back in a year to do it all over again and reconnect to these runners and this community within a community.
Standing there, against the tide of finishers, I thought of the (German) concept of "once is nothing." I think now, having completed the Broad Street Run twice and knowing I (and thousands of others) will return to it year after year, I have a greater understanding that "once is nothing" is truly encapsulated in a runner's expression of this idea of "lightness" in that "what happens but once, might as well not have happened at all. If we have only one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all.” We return to the Broad Street Run because it is so much more than a race. Like the 3 minutes in the third pew back on the left, it is a light in the dark.
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