Race Day

The long-awaited race day was, honestly, everything I hoped it would be.

It was a low-key turkey trot. A community event just big enough to mark the occasion, without being so big that it tipped into overwhelming. My husband and kids hung out in the warm car while I ran a few warm-up laps around the park. I stretched. I breathed. I told myself I’ve run much farther than this distance–twice as far, just the other day!–and that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

I was still scared.

The ghost of the runner that I used to be holds tightest around a 5k. It’s hard to shake the knowledge that I used to cover three miles in under 20 minutes. Nevermind all the ground my body has covered between then and now, the babies I’ve carried, birthed, fed. The degrees I’ve earned. The home I’ve created. The mountains I’ve climbed. The books I’ve read. The countries I’ve seen. The gardens I’ve grown. The life I’ve built. To this ghost, all that matters is that this body used to know how to fly. And if I’m honest, the reason I can’t shake it is because I miss soaring.

I stood at the start line with low expectations. My goal was to race it–to run it as best as I could–but I had no expectations for time. I just wanted to see what would happen if I let myself run it hard. The gun went off, and I found myself wrestling with the muscle memory of a pace I knew I couldn’t hold. Still, the race day adrenaline was flowing, and in the pasture bordering the route there were cows lining the fence and mooing with surprising force. (An unexpected twist on the traditional cow bell cheers.) I listened as my breath and footsteps intertwined with the runners around me. With the bovine cheerleaders. I felt a surge of energy. We turned the corner.

The middle portion of the race was long. I should have known to expect it, but for all the hauntings by the ghost of 5ks past, there was little reminding me that even flight sometimes feels like a slog. I was suddenly filled with the fear that I’d have to stop, that I couldn’t finish, that I wasn’t strong enough to run this race. I talked myself through it, reminding myself that I was absolutely strong enough for this race. I was free to stop and walk at any time, but I had also trained well enough to confidently run this distance. There was absolutely no reason to feel unsafe, everything I needed was fully cared for. The panic subsided, I continued my run. Some time later, a kid zipped past me, maybe seven or eight years old, then settled into a steady pace just ahead of me. I decided to keep pace with him. It felt silly using a child the same age as my own children to mentally pull me through the race, but hey, the kid was fast. 

As I rounded the final corner, a tender spot in my foot began to flare up. I ignored it, knowing I was nearly done. I willed my aching lungs to power me across the finish line. I hadn’t pushed my cardiovascular system that hard in years. I heard my kids cheering for me, “MOOOOOOMMM!!” My legs were heavy, my throat stung with each breath. I reached the finish and my family surrounded me, all telling me how proud they were of me. I received a medal, my time card (25:38.1!), took some photos, and headed to the snack table. I ran into my old cross country coach! We talked about running after having babies, about finding our feet again. My kids ran the fun run and I got to cheer them on too. We celebrated, had donuts and chocolate milk, took more photos. My husband and I chatted as our children played on the playground. 

This race was a big deal for me. Little by little, I took in the reality that I had actually done it. After years of swearing that I’d run any distance but a 5k again, I allowed myself to run with the ghost instead of run away from her. She and I became friends. In the 25 minutes that we spent running together, I finally heard what she had been trying to say to me all along. She was never trying to tell me that I wasn’t enough–she just wanted me to feel what it was like to fly again.

And I did.