In the final weeks of training for Boston, I scheduled two long races: a ten-miler on home turf (Brooklyn's Prospect Park) last Sunday and the NYC Half today. Here is how they both went down:
- Some whining and race reluctance the day and hours leading up.
- Steady, even early miles with very little going on in my brain (which is a good thing, because often my brain would be urging me to stop).
- Negative splits, with the miles in the second half of the race picking up speed.
- Strong clear focus toward the end of the race with zero negative thoughts.
- Last two (ten-miler) and four (half marathon) miles really racing, passing other runners and gaining speed for the final strong kick over the finish line.
- Ending both races with an enormous smile on my face and so proud that, after six years of running, I'm finally genuinely finding joy in racing.
In the ten-miler, a woman was running with me around mile eight for a few minutes and then she moved ahead of me. As the distance between us began to open up, my reaction in past races would have been to feel defeated and slow my pace and then to end feeling like I didn't give it my all. Instead last Sunday I decided to chase her down. I doubted at first that I would catch her, but played out the scene in my head where I thanked her anyway for giving me a reason to race. And then I passed her while flying around the last quarter mile and kicking it over the finish line.
Today, at mile ten a woman approached me on my right side and told me she had been riding in my wake for the last three miles. We ran the next 3.1 together, checking in when one lagged behind, encouraging, passing runner after runner. She told me near the end that it was okay for me to go; I told her she was going with me, that there was nothing she couldn't endure from that point until our foot hit the mat. She stayed. I stayed. We soared across the finish together.
In both races, I knew I had raced well. I didn't need outside validation from other runners or my official time. But in both races, several runners approached me after the race to tell me they had been following me and watched me take off and congratulated me on a race well run, a lovely affirmation. For the ten-miler, my time was faster by a minute than the ten-miler I ran several years ago and I finished first in my AG. Today my tracking info was somehow lost in the system. I trust they will find it. Or they won't. But right now I don't care at all.
One summer I traveled to Italy with a dear friend. We stayed for two weeks in a house in Tuscany with some of her friends, two European couples both with young children. On our last full day there before heading back to Rome, after a morning out and about, she and I found ourselves alone in the big, beautiful, usually noisy house.
Being both a little compulsive, we of course started packing and readying for our departure. Then all of a sudden we stopped. What were we doing?! We took a deep breath, smiled at each other, opened a bottle of wine, and made our way to the porch overlooking the Tuscan hills. There we sat and talked and breathed and took in the day.
I think of that moment often. I thought of it today as I ran through the snow. It's been a long winter. And believe me, I'm as tired as everyone of jumping slush puddles and shoveling icy sidewalks. It is so easy to hate the snow, to feel overwhelmed by shovels and boots and coats and lost mittens and on and on. I often forget that the choice is mine and so I should make a good one. Instead I choose to curse the endless winter or whatever it is that I feel is getting in my way that day.
But if I stop hating it for a second, the snow is so beautiful clinging to the branches and, in NYC, temporarily hiding the grey garbage-covered mounds of ice.
This morning, instead of being beaten down by yet another snowstorm, I chose to breathe and sit on the porch with a glass of wine and a friend. Well, actually, I chose a snowy, breathtakingly beautiful, five mile run through the serenely quiet Brooklyn park.
