This is something that I wrote a few years ago (and sent it out to a few running-related places – to no avail, except Steve Runner at Phedippidations - thanks for reading my story, Steve!).  Writing this story was part motivation, part capturing the timeline that was Tim, trying like hell to be a runner. 

Now?  Now Tim has since completed two marathons.  But at the beginning?  One mile was a marathon.

We start our training this week for a bunch of races coming up this spring and summer.  We need the motivation.  REALLY. NEED. IT.

I hope this helps. 

The story is by no means perfect.  It’s just…that.  A story.

***

The first time I saw someone walking on air was a hot, sticky July morning.  The air was so thick and stifling one wonders why over fifty thousand people gather for a quick 10k race on a muggy Atlanta morning when you can enjoy the same event on the television with air conditioning.  But that is what distinguishes a runner.  We push through the blazing heat or the unbearable cold, the rain, snow, sleet or storm.  We have taken hold of the Post Office mantra and twisted it into something unrecognizable.  We don’t care what “it” is doing outside, we’re getting our run in, and we’re doing it right now.

My husband, Tim, laughed at me when I told him he could run 6.2 miles.  He would chuckle and shake his head at the idea of running, period.  His answer to me when I asked him if he wanted to go run was “I only run if it involves a ball, a basket or a wide, rectangular goal.”

I let him be.  No one becomes a runner by force or even by coaxing.  You become a runner when you want to become a runner. No one but you makes the decision to lace up and head out the door the first time or the thousandth time.  And one autumn day not long after the first road race he watched me run from the sidelines, he told me he wanted to try running.  I could barely hold back my elation or the ideas flying through my head of training and mileage and those blissful early morning weekend runs.  It was going to be great.  It was going to be fun.  He was going to love it.  He was going to be a runner!

But I had to wait.  I had to put up the floodgates and hold back those rushing ideas churning in my head.  We had yet to even get out the door, much less to get through one mile.  That autumn I had to learn something I have never been very good at: patience.

We started with a grueling two mile out-and-back from our home.  Every step was a challenge.  We walked the first mile or so and then ran for a few minutes on the way back and stopped to walk, ran a few minutes more and walked again.  Tim’s face was strained with effort, sweat drenching his shirt and face; while mine tight with impatience and irritation. He was only being stubborn! It was only two miles!

The first time we ran for ten minutes – without stopping – was a major accomplishment.  The first time we ran a mile without walking was cause for celebration and non-stop discussion of how incredible it was; a whole mile – without walking!  Internally, I couldn’t wait for the miles to start stacking up.  My body yearned for the consistent cadence of a long run.  I missed the comforting rhythmic footfalls when you turn your brain off and let your body work.  But I had to wait.  I had to go at his pace. And it was driving me near the cliffs of insanity.

Autumn turned to winter and we kept chugging along, slowly.  Winter turned to spring and our lofty goals of running one mile turned into breaking one mental barrier after another.  Tim was no longer wondering if he could run.  He was imagining how far he could run.  There was something about getting over the two mile hump.  As he said one morning, “Once you can run two, you can always manage one more.”  Those words so sweet I could kiss his sweaty face without gagging. And so it went until July Fourth. 

On any other year, the 4^thof July is a day of celebration and barbeque’s, patriotic colors and fireworks.  As a child, Tim would and his family would go to an outdoor theater in upstate New York and listen to the 1812, complete with a picnic and cannons firing at the end of the overture.  Today, however, he was awake and in the middle of a city bustling with activity at 5:00am, lacing up.

In Atlanta on the Fourth of July the city shuts down its roads to wheels and opens it to two-footed traffic of all shapes and sizes.  The Peachtree Road Race brings together a culmination of world renowned athletes to everyday runners where, on this day, all are equal.  All run the same route and pass by the same bars offering beer, restaurants throwing t-shirts into the air, and local bands in the beds of pickup trucks or on top of boxes belting out their homegrown tunes.

We sat in our corral and waited for the National Anthem to be played and for the other time groups to go through the start and begin their race.  That is the beauty of this event.  Every group, from the elite to the walkers in time group nine get their own personal start under the huge American Flag on Peachtree Street.  The announcer asks if we’re ready with the same gusto and excitement as he did for the Kenyans that, at this point, are already finished.

Tim was more than a bundle of nerves, his entire body rigid with stress and anticipation.  The first race of his lifetime also happened to be the world’s largest 10k, which doesn’t do much for the psyche.  We slowly inched forward with our time group, following huge signs held by volunteers that said “Stop” on one side and “Walk” on the other.  He kept looking at me, eyes wide, questioning the sanity of his decision. Run? Only if chased or if my life depended on it and even then, I’d rather right first. But today, his battle was internal while mine already won. We were here, running, together.

Before he could think about what was about to transpire any longer, we were off, dodging the slower runners and walkers, intent on our goal.  The early, downhill miles passed quickly and we were fast approaching the infamous Cardiac Hill.  We did a decent amount of hill training in preparation for the hill becoming as notable as Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon where dreams are quashed in a few short yards.  When we hit the beginning of the incline my husband looked at me in disbelief.  “This is no hill!”  He said.  He had been agonizing over this hill for months, convinced he would literally fall right over in the middle of the race and carted off by medics. So, I think he was more than a little surprised as we glided up to the top effortlessly, leaving behind those who were still at the mercy of the Hill.

Almost before we realized it, we were turning onto 10^thStreet, with less than a mile to go.  The temporary bridge placed over the road filled with photographers capturing each runner was soon right in front of us. Tim grabbed my hand and raised it up along with his above our heads, sheer joy plastered on his face.  Time slowed, each footfall feeling as if it took an eternity to land as the sound of cameras clicked away, the sight of flashes going off in all directions and cheers from the sidewalk being yelled and chanted from the same place Tim stood one year ago today.  We passed under the man-made bridge and the reason we were there came back like a rushing wind filling an empty sail on calm waters.  The smile turned to a hard pressed grit and determination.  We weren’t just going to finish.  We were going to finish like we were going to win.

We powered through the finish line like we were the first one to ever cross that plane, breaking the tape.  Our gait turned into a slow jog and finally down to a walk as we entered Piedmont Park with the rest of the finishers.  I looked over at Tim, sweat drenching his shirt and running down his face, legs dragging like lead balloons.  He grinned.  No words were needed.  He was glowing, happiness radiating off of him and touching everything we passed.  We picked up our coveted finishers t-shirt and wore it with pride the rest of the day, the smile never leaving Tim’s face. 

I have never been good with patience. Instant gratification should have been my middle name. However, the daily seething I endured through those long months, remaining quiet and allowing a person to go at their own pace instead of my own, rewarded me with more than I could have ever hoped for back on that autumn day.  He had been inducted into the world of solitary togetherness, a place he swore he’d never go by choice or by force.  He had done it. He overcame every false pretense that screamed at him and claimed this task was impossible.  He was a runner.