Finding that Runners' High Again

I called my husband four times from our house to the enormous city park where I would start a new chapter in my life, joining a running club. It was raining, and had been all day, I had a tension headache (and had that all day too), and I was feeling rather nauseous from nerves. As I pulled into the parking lot next to the jogging trail, I saw an enormous crowd of people. Probably around 150 folks of all shapes and walks of life, all gathered around chatting. I parked, grabbed my keys and left all the other useless peripherals I’d packed in the car earlier in a fit of anxiety. Feeling the chill in the air and the slight drizzle of rain on my face, I quickly walked over to the pack.

People were randomly grouped up, some clustered in circles talking about the program, others were obviously with their friends, families or significant others. The group was diverse. There were elderly people, twenty-somethings, middle-aged women and men-- a full smorgasbord of spandex and jogging suits dotted the muddy field.

After chatting idly with several people around me, I deduced that many there had participated in the program before. But, there were about an equal number of wide-eyed, nervous types like myself who had never tried something like this. They were the ones asking all the questions, digging their cold hands in their pockets and looking around anxiously.

After hearing a pep talk, and a medical talk from a trainer about not killing ourselves on the program, the organizers divided us up by groups. My anxiety level skyrocketed as I nervously wondered if I had chosen the right group. Could I run a full mile? I wasn’t even sure. Since giving up long-distance running back in high school, I had not even tested myself. I’d stuck to group sports at first, and then moved into step aerobics and weights. Slowly, my fitness level had dropped, my weight had packed on, and my general feeling of wellness had slipped away to the point that most days I felt so exhausted when I arose, and then later in the afternoon during my big blood sugar drop, that I wondered what was wrong with me.

There had always been a part of me that wanted to get back to running. After two kids and the diagnosis of pre-diabetes, I was scared of this challenge. It wouldn’t be an easy one, considering my fitness level (or lack thereof) or my current weight. But, I was more terrified of NOT doing something than trying to step outside of my comfort zone. I could not sit idly by and watch myself deteriorate until I was on insulin and facing serious health issues for the rest of my life. Now was the time to do this—for my family, but most importantly for myself.

After splitting off into a group of people who said they could run a mile, we were told we were going to have a time trial. This would determine if we’d be in the “fitness” level of the group (for the top half of the race finishers) or the “endurance” half of the group (for the bottom half). I kind of laughed to myself at these names. Was “endurance” supposed to make you feel better about finishing in the bottom? Should that name give you thoughts of the old “Tortoise and the Hare” fable? Should you think, “slow and steady wins the race?”

For me, I’d prefer to be on the fitness team, but I was certain I would end up on the endurance one. There were several people in the group who had participated in the program for several years. Still, I vowed in my head to give it my best and follow their instructions for running at a good pace, but not so fast that you can’t catch your breath.

We lined up and I had a quick flashback to my track days in high school. Lining our toes along the chalked line on the old cinder track of my high school that was in dire need of resurfacing. I remember how I’d feel this rush of anxiety waiting for the gun to sound and as soon as it would go off, my heart would practically jump from my chest. I’d start with a burst round the first corner of the track, but by the straightaway I would remind myself to stride it out, still three laps to go. I think I got through the next two laps of my mile on adrenaline alone. The last lap was pure gut though, picking it up around the final lap and building to a dead sprint around the last curve and final 100 yards.

My track days weren’t something I thought of fondly at the time. Running was really hard. I never felt like I was outstanding at it, even though my letter jacket had both sleeves full of the gold patches signifying accomplishments in a sport. I wasn’t quick enough to be a sprinter, but didn’t love super long distances. I had flat feet and long legs, and an awkward form when sprinting. A friend of mine, Laurie, was a 4-time all-state runner who managed to later get accepted to WestPoint because of her talent. During cross-country season, our coach would drop us off with a laugh several miles out of town on an old country road and tell us he’d see us at the school. Laurie would run so far ahead of the team on these long runs that we could only see a slight dot of her in the distance.

I’m learning that a hard part of adulthood is looking back on things you regret from your youth. I was not a rebel and don’t look back on a party life that embarrasses me. But, I still wish I could go back and do it all over again with more self-confidence and motivation—especially when it came to sports. If I could go back to that old dusty road now, I would try to at least stay within sight of Laurie. Instead of holding back to joke and have fun with my teammates, rather than face their shun if I outdid them in our workouts, I’d challenge myself to see how fast I could go. Laurie ran alone. She didn’t seem to mind their jokes and being left out. She had more drive and self-motivation than anyone I had ever met. If I could go back again, I’d have pushed myself harder, like she did, just to see how far I might have gone.

As we started the time trial, I knew I had to get in the front of the pack, or I’d never have a shot. So, I pushed myself ahead with several people I knew I might not be able to stay with in the end. Avoiding the mud puddles that skirted the path, I passed jogger after jogger as quickly as I could, working my way up to the front. I caught myself huffing a little noticing I was breathing through my mouth. I remembered how we’d learned in school to always breathe in through your nostrils and out through your mouth, especially when it was cold. I stretched out my leg strides and tried to do that.

As I rounded the halfway point, I remember feeling sheer exhilaration. I really wasn’t that tired yet and I wasn’t even running this full steam! Moments later, I looked ahead and could see the finish line. This would be that last curve sprint I remembered from track. I picked up my pace and noticed several around me were doing the same. I did pass another person and happily stopped to pick up my “Popsicle stick,” which would determine if I’d made the top half or bottom half. Blue meant top, green was bottom.

I looked down nervous and saw that mine was blue. Triumphantly, I looked up to notice there were still a handful of blue sticks left being doled out to runners. I hadn’t even finished last in the top group!

Feeling just a tad out of breath, I took note of how strong I felt. I didn’t feel like a middle-aged stay-at-home mother of two who has let herself go. I felt like something I had not felt like in so many years—like an athlete. I had forgotten the feeling of pride I used to have, as I’d participate in my sports in school. The way I’d hold my head high, as we filed off the bus into an opposing team’s gym, ready to dawn our basketball jerseys and win a ballgame. I remember how wonderful it felt being a part of a team. And, how I’d feel after a really long run in from the country to our school—heart beating out of your chest and that wonderful rush of energy and life you felt as you caught your breath. And later experiencing that “runner’s high” you often hear about, that would last for hours after a long race. How could I have forgotten how wonderful it was?

As I walked to my car from the first practice of the program, I felt such a sense of accomplishment, something I had not felt in many years. If I could do this tonight, I could continue with this program. I could run that 5K at the end. And, most importantly, I could find my way back to being a runner and back to better health. It was not that far out of reach, as long as I believed in myself. And, as I drove away, I realized that is what had been missing from my life for so long—that self-esteem had slipped away from me somewhere along the way to adulthood. And, I knew now, that I was on the cusp of regaining that and learning more about myself than I had in a long time.