The Long Run

I began my first marathon training almost three years ago. As a professional fitness trainer I actually believed I could train for those 26.2 miles all on my own. I lasted until about mile 15. The longer the runs became, the more I wished for company – a running partner, someone to pass the time with. I enrolled in a local training group with a chip on my shoulder and expectations set way too high. The weekly workouts were more than do-able but the long runs…those were my demons. I couldn’t let go of my competitive nature. I pushed harder, longer, faster and paid no heed to the coaches’ advice of “easy runs.”

Looking back, I ran that marathon for all the wrong reasons. I ran like I had something to prove, someone to beat. The closer race day came, the more pressure I put on myself to come in under my goal time. I was a strong, committed runner – hell, Why not? Looking back, I realize my greatest obstacle was myself. I finished that race. Painfully. Overtrained and injured and most of all angry with a sense of failure. It was not enough for me to complete it. I wanted more.

Let me back up a bit. I was 34 years old at the time and a mother of 2 children, ages 6 and 3. I battled constantly with the need to be the best in all I did. I was one of those Mom’s all the other Mom’s hated. I exercised obsessively through both pregnancies and once the kids were born, they were no strangers to the jogger strollers. I completed my second triathlon only 6 months after my second child was born. Granted, the nature of my profession requires me to be active, physically fit and motivated. My clients, mainly females and 30 something mom’s expected that from me. Then I hit the wall.

After the birth of my second child I was diagnosed with severe depression with a post partum onset. I became the incredible shrinking woman. I lost weight faster than was fathomable or healthy. I lost my drive and my spirit. I lost complete knowledge of who I was. I, the driven multi-tasker extraordinaire, lost the ability to handle the day to day needs of my children and family. I isolated myself. Struggled to stay afloat as the jaws of this unknown creature called depression sucked me deeper and deeper down and awa y from my own life. Doctors, therapists, psychiatrists. I saw them all and still do to this day. I resigned myself to taking daily antidepressants so that I could be a mother, a wife and a professional again. There was no medication, however, that would ever allow me to be ME again. The only thing I didn’t lose was running. Running was my sanity. I couldn’t plan ahead enough to make dinner on a daily basis, but I could always run. As the saying goes, I didn’t my know head from a hole in the ground, but I knew how to run.

I cannot describe the relief and joy I felt as my feet hit the pavement. Their rhythm was soothing, captivating. I felt free of my body and mind. I felt like I could fly. So I began to run more and more seeking that freedom, that release, the one thing I could still count on, my body’s ability to perform. It was with this desperation that I entered my first marathon. It was horrible. I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t centered. I did not really know why ,I was running that race. I know now that I wasn’t really running that marathon I was just running away.

With a less than desirable finish time, injured and disheartened I vowed to begin training again. I would slow down, take more time to plan workouts and I would run that marathon again. This second time around is when I really discovered the value of the Long Run. I came to understand that it was the weekly long run that would test my metal. It was the weekly long run that would challenge me to define exactly why I was running. Over the weeks, I learned, albeit slowly, to let go of my single minded drive, the need to beat the clock. I listened to my coaches “Pace yourself. Run your own race. Take it easy. Enjoy.” My body embraced the distances, my mind relinquished the suffocating control of the clock and I ran. Once again free, ecstatic to feel my feet beneath me. My monster , “Depression”, remained with me. She was there as I laced my shoes in the dark of the early morning. She was with me on every run on every mile. She under-estimated me.
This marathon was different. I was training for distance and endurance, not for time.

Depression and I had the same talk every morning I would wake before my family began the day. Quietly the voice introduced fear, doubt and anxiety, “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?” The same questions repeating again and again as pulled on my shorts and shoes, inhaled a cup of coffee, swallowed my 100mg of bottled sanity, put my headphones on and headed out the door. Just one mile I would pray, just let me get through the first mile. And I would turn the volume on my portable CD player up as loud as it would go and let U2’s yearning melodies provide my feet cadence. Please, just one mile. “Where the streets have no name…”

I do not know if it is the same for all runners, but I know that my first mile – whenever, wherever, it is – is always the hardest mile. Perhaps it is even worse than the “final mile”. There is no hope of finish, only distance ahead. There is no euphoria or relief, just stiff legs and joints as the body warms to the pace of the run. I always feel like a puppet with missing strings during the first mile. Disjointed. Disassociated from the pavement and from my feet. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
But I kept running. Gradually loosening and owning my body as the pavement streamed beneath me. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
F- you I would answer. I am RUNNING.

The weeks and months went by in a blur. Training runs fell in place and provided me with a structure By which to live my life. Daily Agenda: 1) Run 2) Take care of the kids 3) Groceries 4) Car Pool 5) Dinner 6) Breathe 7) 8) Go to bed so I can run. At the end of each week, there it was. Glittering. Every Sunday morning for six months – it was on the training schedule! - The Long Run.

I came to long for the Long Run. The weekly test of strength and commitment. A demon that I could see and feel, The Long Run is tangible. It is miles and sweat and tears. It is life and I chase it. I realize. I refuse. I accept. I define.

I am not the sum of my prescriptions.