My life changed radically in 2008 when I began training
for my first marathon. It is hard to
believe it has only been 4 short years since I set out to do what “runners” do
and grappled with the doubt and insecurity of entering a world in which I
didn’t belong. I have struggled with uncertainty and fear,
doubting myself most of the way. It is
my default setting, whispering in my ear in the moments I am anxious and unsure
of myself.
I have found purpose in my running and feel unbelievably
blessed to be able to combine it with writing.
I am always incredibly touched when something I have written encourages
someone else. One comment I have never
found a way to be comfortable with, is that I am an inspiration. I squirm every time I hear this and although
I try to accept the comment with grace, I fall short most times.
It is a similar discomfort I have with the challenge to be
vulnerable. Being uncomfortable with it is not the same as not being vulnerable. I am vulnerable, sensitive, often easily hurt
and exposed more often than I would like.
Running a 50 k yesterday, the hours on the trail gave me time to think as always. I
found myself thinking about my tendency to wait just until the race to register. I thought about my physical reaction, a tug in
the pit of my stomach the night before as I was pulling in for packet pick
up. Driving into the campground of tents
and athletic looking people all wearing the trademark brands of competent
runners, I wanted to turn around and go home.
It is the same thought I have every time, which actually seems to be
more of a feeling. “These people belong
and I don’t. “ I wait, holding my breath
for the group to collectively turn and look at me, the one person who doesn’t
belong there. It doesn’t happen of course, and each time I go through this I
talk myself back into reality. But the
pattern is predictable, and stays with me through the start line the next
morning.
I had plenty of time to analyze it yesterday. Was I afraid I wouldn’t finish the race? Was I afraid I couldn’t do it? Was I afraid my body would shut down or that
I would be injured? Was I afraid of being so slow that the course closed before I got to
the finish line? Was I afraid every person there would see me as an imposter,
figuring out I wasn’t a real runner? Answering no to all the questions, meant I
really didn’t have a good reason for doubting myself, yet I do every time. I am
afraid of signing up and I am afraid of all of the things I know are not
true. I am afraid of quitting, even though
I know I won’t. I am afraid of failing
even though I know finishing is good enough.
I am afraid of falling short and being judged even though it would be
unjust.
In my mind I call it fearful courage. It is as paradoxical as it sounds and I can’t
explain it, because it is as emotive as it sounds.
The best I can do is this: It is feeling
afraid and acting courageously, knowing the two are braided together so tightly that to take one away leaves a thin strand too weak to withstand the weight it is holding.
It takes courage to sign up for a run no matter what the
distance and what your expectations. It
takes courage to show up at the start line,
and it takes courage to keep going mile after mile, and it takes courage
to put yourself out there in a world where anyone can judge what you have done
and how well you did it. And fear is
braided into every courageous moment I am out there from start to finish.
I realized yesterday the reason I have not ever been able
to accept being an inspiration is because it feels so fake. I know the fear and vulnerability that comes
with me to every race, every run, every ride and swim. It shows up in the moments I am alone and in
the moments I jump ahead to all of the “what if’s”. It is a companion every time I lace up my
shoes and every time I put myself out there. Other people don’t see it, but the
roar of its voice makes me struggle to hear how I could be an inspiration to
anyone. “If only they knew,” whispers in
my ear drowning out anything else.
Crossing the finish line yesterday, I was battered,
bloodied, bruised and pain was radiating through every cell of my body. I have learned to cope with pain, but I have
also come to an acceptance that as my pain levels rise, the veneer I keep as
protection thins considerably. I have an
ability to push myself hard, hard enough to create a base and raw emotional
transparency. In the moments am most tired, I can cry for no reason other than
I have nothing left. As I came through the chute, I knew I was there. This was
by far one of the most challenging coursed I have run and I had no defenses and rational thought had disappeared
miles ago.
Three miles before
the finish line I took a head first, downhill, swan dive into the woods and lost several
moments. I think I laid on the ground
for three or four minutes but it could have been more. I was about four feet off the trail where I
landed and although I eventually found my hat, I never did find my sunglasses
which had also flown off my head. I
remember knowing I was going to fall.
That split second which is somehow long enough to allow for ten thoughts
to roll through your head. Including the
anticipation of how fast I was going and how much it was going to hurt. As I
started my dive I felt a searing pain in my calf, the one not yet healed from
the tear in May. When I got off the ground it was several moments before I
could put weight on my leg and I couldn’t bend my knees, both rapidly turning
purple and bleeding. My right arm had a
stick embedded in it, lengthwise thankfully and the mud was so thick on my body
I didn’t even attempt to brush it off.
Later on I would realize, crossing the finish line I had mud IN my nose,
leaves in my hair and splinters in my hand.
I managed to laugh as people yelled “you look awesome” in a race known
for being impossibly difficult and calling itself the “bloodied and broken
series”.
In spite of the
pain I actually had my fastest 3 miles
of the entire race after I tumbled. Pain has always been converted into a combustible
emotion for me and yesterday was no different.
I know you are likely thinking I am tying my fall and the last 3 miles together to talk
about courage. That couldn’t be further
from the truth. I would actually never tell anyone else to run like hell after
a fall like that. I did know in that
moment however the question of whether I would finish was never really a
question.
After I crossed the finish line I came under the tent and
was handed a bottle of water and my medal.
A strange conversation followed and I think it was something like this. A
man with a clipboard asked “what is your age group?” “ Huh?” If
you have ever run long distances you know the feeling of running yourself
stupid. It is what happens after a
certain number of miles, when your head is filled with wet cotton and adding
single digits is impossible. You are
reduced to a simple machine, “one foot in front of the other, just keep
running”.
Age group? Hell I don’t know, what the groups or
categories are and why is he asking me? I
finally respond “I am 40.” To which he responded
“You are 40?” “Yes”. “Are you sure you
are 40?” “What?” “Are you sure you are 40?” “Yes!”
“You are sure you are in the 40 age group?” At this point it is a good thing I had run
myself stupid or I would have said something regrettable. In my head I was thinking “ I know I look
like hell you big jerk, but I just ran 50k and I did a swan dive into the woods
and I hurt so bad that breathing is a challenge, so shut up and let me go sit
down before I embarrass myself and crumple at your feet”.
Luckily I didn’t have the energy for that many
words. With a huge smile he asked me how
to spell my name. Trying to stay upright
I spelled my name for him. He kept smiling as he looked at me and said “congratulations,
you are first in your age group”. I am
sure the stupefied look on my face will entertain him for years to come but it
lasted only a split second before tears started to roll down my face. I stood there, not moving and not saying a
word,, tears flowing. The emotion on my
face must have been telling, because within moments the man who had been
teasing me all along started to well up and his tears were visible.. He stood
silently and shed tears with me as physical pain disappeared for a moment in the
weight of overwhelming emotions.
Taking first in my age group was not what made me
cry. At 5:30 that morning as I stood at
the start line, my first ultra since my latest surgery I knew this race was
about me and learning to trust myself just a little bit more. It was about gaining some level of confidence
in myself, faith in myself and being brave enough to test myself on the trail
for that many hours. My fear is never about logical or tangible. It is a courageous fear that comes knowing I
am about to put myself out there and trust myself. It is about knowing there is a chance I will
fall short and sometimes do. It is about
being brave enough to face my expectations, not my insecurities.
I stood there crying, caked in mud, bloody, beat up and legs
barely supporting me. And I was so damn grateful
to be there, in that exact moment filled with emotion and pride. It was one of
those defining moments that somehow changes who you are, but just enough that only you can tell. It is accepting that you have to be strong
enough to risk and accept failure and without the failure the bravery would be
absent too. My proudest moment has
nothing to do with my time or placement. It is the absence of shame in the tears
rolling down my face.. The quiet and real moment that lets me be brave enough
to shed tears with a total stranger and stand in front of him and the finish
line without defenses.
“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of
courage.” — Brené Brown
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