(If you’re here from over at In the Powder Room – Welcome!  Err….’Ello! Lovely to have you on this wonderful mornin’ You may or may not have seen me over at ITPR as jbold and may I just say that it is fabulous to have you visiting my blog!)

Six years.

Today marks the sixth year that Tim and I will be running the Peachtree Road Race.  Today we will line up, once again, on Peachtree Street at 5:30 in the morning to run 6.2 miles in the hot, humid Atlanta weather.  We’re not sure how this year is going to be, exactly.  Since we moved from Atlanta to Denver last October, we traded training in the heat and humidity for super high altitude.

Do those cancel each other out?

I have no idea.

This road race is significant because it is the first one that Tim and I trained together for and the first race of any distance that Tim ran and completed, like, ever in his whole life.  Training for and finishing your first race is a big deal.

A Really Big Deal.

To help you understand just how big of a deal I’m talking about, here, let me tell you a little story.  I think I posted this once  already, albeit awhile ago, but today, it feels appropriate to share it with you – again.

This is a story I wrote about Tim’s first go at running.  Hopefully it inspires you somehow…if you haven’t already read it before or even if you have.  The basic premise is, if you are struggling with running and as much as you want to, you are absolutely positive you can’t do it…you just know you can’t finish…you absolutely cannot take another step…you have no idea why you started down this path and committing to a race was an absolute fool of a decision…

you can do it. you will finish.

***

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 4th of July is a day of celebration and barbeques, 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 10th Street, 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 manmade 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.

And I learned that waiting for that scatter-brained butterfly really can be magical.

****

Since that moment, that one race, we have completed countless other races together, from 5ks to 10ks to half and full marathons, along with so many training runs that I cannot even keep track anymore.

The thing about running that no one ever really talks about is that the secret is in the training – not in the race itself. Sure, you’ll read loads (I’m trying to be an equal opportunity wordsmith..or something…here) of stories about how wonderful this race was and that race was…but that’s not where the magic of running lies.  Those horrid training runs where you think you’re positively dying is where you really learn about yourself as a runner.

Training is where the work lies.

Training is where you conquer your demons and triumph over your fears.

This Peachtree will always mean something to me.  I don’t think it would matter if we lived in Antarctica – we’d still be in Atlanta on July 4th to line up on Peachtree Street and run those hot, sometimes unbearable 6.2 miles.

We’ll keep our tradition.

It’s too special to break.

What about you?  What is your 4th of July tradition?

Unless, of course, you’re from across the pond. Then? I wouldn’t imagine you’d really have a tradition, given the meaning of “Independence Day,” which now makes my question entirely ironic or inappropriate – or both.

But I love you for sticking it out ’til the end.

And – bonus! - if you’re craving more, here are some past Peachtree reflections:

2010 Peachtree

2009 Peachtree