On September 11, I will be running 13.1 miles from Bethlehem, PA to Easton, PA, wearing a number and proudly sweating my ass off.
Running my first half marathon is a goal I set for myself at the beginning of the summer, because I wanted to be productive with the free time I knew I would be finding, and because I wanted a reason against Netflix becoming that filler. If you had asked me three months ago to run any more than five miles, I would have laughed in your face and considered that a sufficient answer. I was not a runner, in any capacity.
Yet on Sunday, I ran eight miles, and this Sunday I will be doing it again. My summer has been a story of how I learned to find motivation in even the hardest of times.
The last two weeks of my internship required that I be on a film set for twelve hours straight, waking up at six in the morning, and not getting back to my room until near nine at night. The Lafayette gym was not open before or after my long day, and it was too dark outside before or after I left for me to run alone and feel safe. So, I joined LA Fitness for a short time, and after I threw down my bags, exhausted, and greeted my roommates, I quickly changed and headed back out to run on the treadmill until near closing time at the gym. Needless to say, I started taking vitamin C every day, worried about the havoc my lack of sleep was going to wreak on my immune system.
Often, it was very hard. Most Sundays, the days of my longest runs, promised to be very hot, and so I woke up early and quietly, tip toed past my roommates, happy in Dreamland, and ran five, six, seven miles with Guns N' Roses as my only comfort.
It was during these times that I wondered what I was doing it for. Why suffer the exhaustion? The early mornings? The terrible calf cramps that occasionally woke me from my sleep? It is the power of setting goals. The power of sticking to schedules and looking forward to nothing more than making myself happy. Because I know that when I cross that finish line in a month, I will not care about how fast I ran the race, how often I had to stop and walk; I will be proud that I finished. Period.
Honestly, I still do not consider myself a runner. Even through all my training, I have not "caught the bug" that my dad, a two-time NYC Marathon finisher, promised would find me. Once I place a nice "13.1" magnet on my car and set aside my tired shoes, I probably will not ever again run more than five miles at once.
I am not doing this to make myself a "runner." I am not doing this to lose weight or get nice calf muscles (which have still eluded me). I am doing this to find a sense of pride, a reason to pat myself on the back, something to strive for. Sure, it is nice to burn 884 calories to start the morning (ample wiggle room for calorie consumption, no?). But what will be even nicer is crossing that finish line and knowing that I never gave up, never missed a day of training, set my mind to something seemingly far-fetched and got it done.
The experience has taught me that I can do anything I set my mind to. This journey has helped me summon motivation I never thought I had and helped me tie the taste of sweat with the taste of accomplishment. I may never do it again, but I will never regret doing it now.
And with that, it is time to take a nap.
