At 7:12 on this cold and windy Sunday morning, I stepped into my corral for the 2014 New York City Half Marathon, six back from the starting line. Breathed. Made small talk with a few guys around me. Breathed. Started my GPS watch. Listened to the speeches and National anthem. Craned, failing to locate my friend Tim in the corral before me. Tossed my XXL burnt orange Coney Island hoodie into the donation bin along the sidelines. Shivered. Began the forward movement with the crowd, slowly at first, taking about five minutes after gun time for my foot to hit the mat.
From start to finish, my race today was marked, remarkably, by a lack of thinking. It was crowded but I hit my stride about three miles in. I knew I wanted to maintain a pace of just below 8:00 minute miles with the 2nd half faster than the first. I periodically reviewed how I was doing and the answer that invariably returned was that I was just fine. Nothing hurt. Nothing was even particularly uncomfortable. A couple of times I felt my energy flagging a bit and downed a half of a gu before the upcoming water station. I paced myself with other runners who seemed to be moving at the pace I wanted to move, until I was ready to pass them. I flowed around the park, through Times Square and 42nd Street, down the West Side Highway, and around the tip of Manhattan, staying strong in every mile.
What made this race so different from other races for me? I had one vivid moment, while still in Central Park, when I realized that nothing mattered. I was there, running and that was all that I needed to do. I didn't need to think about the time or my previous times or what was ahead. I ran. And no one, particularly myself, had any expectations at all of me on this day. It was mine to do with what I wanted.
My fastest half marathon to this point, other than during full marathons, was last year's Brooklyn Half. But that race was marked for me by going out too fast, taking several pit stops during the run, throwing up at the finish line, and an overall sense that it was not a race well run despite the strong finishing time.
Today I ran a little more than two minutes faster than Brooklyn. And it was my most mature race ever. I stuck to my planned pace, never got discouraged, and each 5K was faster than the last.
Recently I have realized that my status as a newbie runner is no longer a fit. Today proved that. I have a ton still to learn, but this morning I finally loved racing.
While publicly pondering the NYC Half Marathon a few days from now, a running friend said these words: Just remember yourself.
Yesterday, late afternoon, I went out for a five mile run. It was a glorious much-needed spring day in Brooklyn. My run should have been full of joy. Instead I felt heavy, dehydrated, and plodding. I picked up some when I hit the park, but none of the miles were easy ones. Five years as a runner and I know that every run is a good run, so one rough run is not troubling.
In my head as I ran I kept hearing the words "just remember yourself."
Some days it is hard to remember myself on any level. I did not have children until late. And so for two decades after leaving high school, while often in relationships, I was only responsible for myself. I moved to New York City in my mid-20s and spent days wandering the City's streets, visiting museums, making pottery, drawing, going to theatre, dining out with friends, focusing on my career, reading books on park benches and while walking home from the subway, sitting in cafes.
My son, Gus, was born ten days before my 40th birthday. My daughter Genevieve two years later. This summer Gus will turn ten and I will turn 50.
Most days that young woman who wandered the streets of New York City is a dim memory. But I am realizing that she is being replaced by a more complete version of Rachel. Those young decades formed me. But childbirth and the subsequent years, most particularly parenting and running, are completing me. Or at least as complete as I am now—I'm sure there is more to come.
The birth of my children was fast and furious and I, frankly, didn't feel like I did childbirth very well. It was the most physically intense experience of my life up to that point. Now I am deep in child rearing, learning by trial and error, always in demand, with little time for the pleasantries of my formerly simple life.
Two years after my daughter's birth I had lots of reasons for starting to run and, later, for running marathons. But one of the most important catalysts was proving my strength after feeling so humbled by the arrival of two small wailing infants.
Through running—and particularly distance running—I have again become confident in my own strength and endurance. I can run 26 miles hard and fast and finish smiling. I can still set new PRs as I get ready to hit 50. I experience intense joy. I can endure the pain of the distance —aching muscles, blisters, nausea, sore feet, chafing. Weather is not an issue. Snow, rain, heat, cold. Whatever. Bring it.
And so for Sunday's race, this is the myself I will remember and be. I will breathe through the pain, cheer myself through my mind's sometimes desire to lie down on the sidelines, and I will remember crossing the finish line of my last marathon in 3:33:33 with tears of joy streaming down my face.
