For the majority of my life, running was the worst thing I could imagine. On the rare occasion I had to do more than imagine it, I found it frustrating and traumatic.
In fourth grade, the elemtary schools organized a city-wide track meet to garner interest in the track and field program. A former high school athlete, my mother signed me up for relay team, saying it would be a good life experience or something equally corny. I don’t remember where my relay team placed, but I do remember that I contracted mononucleosis at that event and spent most of the remainder of the year home sick.
Having broken my knee and gotten out of the timed mile test in fifth grade, I was unlucky enough to have no broken bones in sixth grade. So, with the rest of my class I trudged out to the path that ran around the school and adjoining field. To pass the assessment, we had to run a mile in under fifteen minutes. I finished in 14 minutes and 58 seconds and promptly vomited onto the grass. This was the best mile test I took and the only one where I met the required time. Fortunately for me, I got all my PE credits out of the way and by the end of 8th grade and swore I would never run another mile.
I held onto that for three years, until the summer before my senior year of high school. Convinced by a friend who wanted to get in shape before she started college, I showed up stupidly early twice a week to run the mile path around a local pond. It took all summer for me to be able to run that all at once with no walking. School started again, my friend moved away, and my running shoes retired to the closet.
Two years later I was studying abroad and rooming with a cross-country runner. She and a few other girls invited me to go for a jog with them. Perhaps my guard was down because they used the word “jog” instead of “run”, but I figured I was in decent shape. How bad could it be? The first half mile nearly killed me. Eventually they left me huffing and puffing on the field in front of the recreation center while they did the rest of their mileage. I didn’t run with them again and they certainly didn’t invite me, but I did keep lacing up my shoes and going out for the occasional run. Without a fancy watch or app I have no clue how far I went and I’m too scared to pull up a map and figure out. I’m happier instead imagining that it was some significant and respectable distance.
As soon as I returned home, the shoes retired again. This time, I thought it would be for good. Instead, it was eight years before I attempted to run again. I had finally finished graduate school and started my first job. Living in a new city with no friends or family made adjusting to my new position and schedule even more difficult. I had trouble going to bed early enough to make getting up before 5AM palatable. Someone suggested that I try wearing myself out by running in the evening. It seemed like a stupid idea, but one night I put on my sneakers, a cotton t-shirt and a pair of soccer shorts, and ran a mile. It was terrible and hard. I got home and sat dry heaving in my tub while cold water ran over me. Then I did it again two days later and two days after that.
One mile eventually turned into two and then three. I signed up for a 5k, just to see if I could do it. As soon as I finished, I started to wonder if I could do it faster. Or maybe I could go farther?
I’ve done both of those things now—run a 5k faster and run much farther. Sometimes when I’m running I still think about how strange it is to think back to a time when running a mile seemed like an impossible challenge. Or when running a whole two miles felt out of reach. It’s a good reminder when my current goals seem too big or unattainable that I’ve been there before can do it again.