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and just like that...
November 28, 2007
everything changed.
One morning last week, I got up to run before work. Not a big deal. But, morning runs had long been lost between not wanting to wake to face the day and the urgency of getting to work so I could get right back out. But on that morning, I wanted to run, and I felt I could afford to take the time to do it. I wanted to feel strong again, I wanted to be better. It was just three easy miles, slow and a little difficult, in the unseasonably warm and humid November morning, with shoes I wasn't used to, and just a couple of days after a fairly fast 14. But it was a landmark, and symbolic of where I suddenly have found myself.
On Thanksgiving Day, I lined up for the five-mile Thundercloud Turkey Trot for the fourth year. It was my first timed race ever, back in 2004. That year, I finished the hilly course in 50:41. My friend ran it in 44:09, and I remember thinking I'd never be that fast.
The next year, I turned in a 45:40. Last year, 45 even.
This year, I thought, let's go for knocking another minute off. The weather was going to be cool, in the 40's, and there was something else, something new brewing in my heart. I'd run the first mile, with the long climb on MLK Blvd., in 9, and try to run 8:45's after that.
I hit the first mile at 8:57. Perfect, but I wondered about running the 8:45's. I missed the two-mile marker, but looking at my watch just past it, it vaguely registered that something was odd.
At the three-mile mark, the watch blinked 16:27 at me. I was stunned, and decided to just see if I could hold pace. I was working hard, keeping myself just under the point at which my legs would start to get heavy and burn, saving that for the last mile. I was in a new crowd of runners, up where the chatting thins out in favor of breaths and light footstrikes. I focused, and for the first time, I found the rhythm of the rolling hills down Red River. As always, I could push myself, just because. But on this day, there was something else.
For years, on runs, in races, in my life, it's just been push, because there was nothing else I could do. Push, and just try to hold on, because maybe something would come of it, though I had no idea what it might be, or if it might really ever be at all.
I worked hard, but the work was compartmentalized, which was a blessing and a curse. Running was an escape, and for that time, nothing else would really matter. But when things got tough, and I tried to put the discomfort or pain or fear in perspective, there was none, because outside of the run, there was little I looked forward to, other than my commitment to and care for the people I coach. I could push myself hard, hard enough to make the escape, but that was it.
But now, finally, there was something real - someone real - and not just some hazy, unanchored, almost foolish hope.
It's easier to run, to get through pain, easier to live, with someone in your heart, than on blind faith alone.
Mile four took eight minutes. I pushed harder. I could take ten minutes of temporary hurt. She would still be there. The last mile, with the steep climb up 11th Street, took 7:45.
All these months of not knowing my own face, catching sight of myself in the polished elevator doors as they closed on me every weekday, heavy, mouth distorted in bitterness, eyes hollow in despair... today they seem so far past that they almost seem like someone else's life.
The next day, I ran 7.1 miles in 1:02:50, at a faster pace than I ran in my fastest 10K, in October. Last night, I ran it in 1:01:07, averaging 8:34 per mile, and I could have kept going.
I could be wrong. I've been wrong before. But I've also been right before, and something else - timing, events, human foolishness - intervened. I don't know the future, but finally, I again believe there can be one, and I'd be willing to lay money on it. I for sure am willing to lay my heart on it.
It's sudden, I know. And it's all happened quickly. But there's a certainty I haven't known and felt in a very long time, that comes when I catch little glimpses, little glimmering previews, in the blue of her eyes, and in these things in my own heart.
I won't, I can't, forget that face that was reflected back at me for so long, or the emptiness, or the failures of faith, because knowing where I've been makes where I am, and where I might be going, and the appearance of her in my life, that much more miraculous.
I have a heart again, and it pumps stronger and faster than it ever did before.
Posted by Rob at November 28, 2007 03:24 AM