In the midst of an ill-timed writing slump that overcame me this week, I’ve been looking through my past columns for inspiration. As I scrolled through the headlines, I noticed one glaring issue: I’m the world’s biggest whiner.
Pessimism is nothing new for me. I’ve always been negative by nature, and boy do I love to complain. With all the bumps in the road I’ve encountered, I feel that a little frustration is warranted. It seems that every run I go on, something new hurts. Right now, for example, I’m having issues with my IT band along with residual pain from my hip injury. I’m a mess, but at a certain point you have to either suck it up or give it up, and I certainly won’t be doing the latter.
For all the bad experiences and bad attitudes I’ve had, I’ve told myself it will all be worth it when I finish the race. In a way, the finish line has become a justification for my bad attitude. If finishing is what’s most important, then I don’t need to try to enjoy the journey — I just need to get it done. There was a time before all my injuries that I really enjoyed training, but I’ve gotten in such a routine of being pissed off by all my setbacks that I’m no longer happy when I actually overcome a challenge. My little victories don’t feel like accomplishments — they just feel like things I didn’t screw up for once.
I do believe that placing so much value on this one big goal is the reason I haven’t given up, but it’s been hard to feel good about my training when I feel I can’t be truly proud of myself until I cross that finish line. Running 26.2 miles is a huge accomplishment, but so are the 367 miles I’ve run in preparation. So in honor of those 367 hard miles, I’m going to stop looking forward for once, and instead look back to some moments from the past few weeks that made all of this worth it.
Tuesday, April 2: six-mile recovery run.
When my alarm blared at 6:30 a.m. for my very first early morning run of spring term, I hit snooze. The sun had hardly risen and my room was bitter cold. At the second alarm, I forced one brave toe out of my blanket cocoon and then the rest of me. The goose flesh of my bare skin sent a harsh wakeup call of shivers through my body, and I was up, clumsily pulling on the running shorts and long sleeve I laid out the night before.
The rest of my morning routine went as usual — cold water and suds on skin, honey butter toast and an almond milk latte downed with haste. I was still grumbling when I stepped into my Hokas and out the door. The sun waited patiently behind the hill for my first two miles, and once I was shaken out and fully awake, it peeked out to say hello. Awash in morning light and endorphins, I donned my new running sunglasses — the goofy mirrored kind that definitely make you go faster.
Until this day, I was a stranger to the joy of running early in the morning. There’s this quality to the sunlight that feels fresher and cleaner — brisk, but still warm on your skin. Also, the notoriously optimistic early-morning runners are much friendlier than my usual mid-morning peers, and I was bathing in all the smiles and waves.
It felt like I had discovered a secret world that morning — one where most people are still tucked in bed or at their counters nursing a cup of coffee. It had taken some convincing to get me out the door, and my legs were achy and fatigued from my 20-mile run the weekend before, but I made it out there with the rest of the happy morning people and had a fantastic run.
Monday, March 25: six-mile treadmill recovery run in Lake Tahoe.
I was not excited about having to do my training runs on a treadmill over spring break. I’m strictly an outdoor runner because I find the boredom of the treadmill makes running 10 times harder…your girl just loves to look around! But I surprised myself during this run and had a blast.
I was confined to the treadmill because I was in Lake Tahoe for a ski trip and wasn’t wanting to hunt for a good stretch of relatively flat road to get my training miles in. Luckily, the condo my mom and I stayed in had a gym. But since the resort was used in 1960 for the winter Olympics, the facilities were a bit outdated and scary, and it was definitely an experience.
The gym, fittingly named “Pineview,” for its few small windows shrouded in trees, consisted of two treadmills that shook violently when ran on, a stationary bike, an elliptical, a bench press and rack of weights that I’m pretty sure hasn’t been replaced since 1960. The ceilings were water stained and it was uncomfortably quiet and dark. As I flipped the array of light switches on and off, I found the fluorescent overhead lights to be too harsh, so I settled for some unconventionally romantic lighting from three wall sconces for my afternoon workout.
After looking at myself in the rusted full length mirrors for a slightly egotistical amount of time and doing a half-ass dynamic stretch warm up, it was time to run. My footsteps fell clunkily on the old machine, making a huge racket in the tiny room. The one person who joined me in the gym left quickly, likely irritated by my thumping feet and breathy lip syncing. When he left, I had a full blown dance party, waving my arms about haphazardly to my most tasteful mix of music — One Direction, Earth, Wind & Fire and the Grease musical soundtrack.
After weeks of painful, frustrating training, this was the strongest runner’s high I’d experienced in quite some time. I feel I should issue a formal apology to all treadmill runners because I now understand the method to your madness…treadmill running can be stupid fun.
Saturday, March 23: 18-mile run back from injury.
It was a beautiful March day in Eugene — stubbornly overcast and pissing rain — the perfect morning for a three-hour run! I was nearing the end of week 14/19 of my training block and feeling anxious to get in a proper long run after weeks of hip injury rehab. I had planned to only run 16 miles that day, but when I wasn’t on death’s doorstep at mile 14 as per usual, I decided to push it to 18.
For some context, the farthest I had run that month was 12 miles, so jumping up to 18 was a fairly ambitious plan. But accompanied by a new running friend and 600 grams of carbs loaded the day before, my body was up to the challenge. I ran the first five miles solo and picked up my friend for miles 6 through 15. As we parted ways, the reality of my situation set in; I was exhausted. But thanks to the tried and true downhill slant of the Amazon Park loop, my runner’s high reactivated and I was singing Elton John all through mile 17.
As the robotic voice of my Nike Run Club tracker announced I had passed mile 17, I deflated. “Come on Jess. One more mile,” I huffed. “You can do this. Come on Jess.” I slightly miscalculated my route, and I was on the side of Hilyard Street next to an Albertsons as I entered the final push. Breaking out into an eight-minute pace, I glanced down at my phone. 17.97 miles. A few more strides. 17.98. I drove my head down and charged into the rain. “18 miles,” the voice announced, and I thundered to a stop, feeling tears catch in the back of my throat as I pumped my fist in the air to my audience of oncoming traffic.
There was no one there to congratulate me, but I felt the pride of a standing ovation as I limped home on blistered feet. I’ve gotten used to the feeling of accomplishing big things with only myself as a witness, and most of the time I can hardly believe what I’ve just done. I’m just a normal person who wakes up on a normal day and goes out to tackle things I never thought possible for myself. How f*cking cool is that?
