Everything except the ice cold drizzle had been planned. It was unusually chilly for a September morning, and the rain was not pleasant.
That’s okay though, it’s motivation for me to finish so I can get inside like a normal person, Lissie thought to herself. She had lost count of how many races she had ran in by this point. This particular 5K was just another one in a long line of meaningless gift bags and stale catered post-race breakfasts. She did not even enjoy running that much; she was not on her school’s cross country team or even track and field. She didn’t make great time, she got sore and hated the feeling of sweat pouring down her back when she ran in the summer. Sometimes she thought about stopping altogether. What’s the point? She didn’t run with anyone. Her parents supported her but could not understand the attraction. Racing was expensive, too, because she had to pay for shoes, races, and the hundreds of hair bands she went through in a six month period. (She had no idea where they all went, it was as if they hated being constricted to her hair, and escaped from her frizzy brunette prison, one at a time.)
The obvious upside was exercise. Lissie considered this as she stretched to warm up for the race, which started in ten minutes. The muscles in her calves strained against her skin as she spread her legs a part and touched the ground. Exercise was essential, and she valued the endorphin release that came from it most of all. She could be angry, depressed, or just anxious, and after running a couple of miles she would be distressed. Just like that. She started running as a release. When she was fourteen, her parents sat her down to tell her they were going to split up—something Lissie had never expected. She did not want to deal with the pain, with the reality, she just wanted to run away. That’s exactly what she did. Lissie had made it through the divorce and a ton of other little hardships, and her Nikes had absorbed the shock of every consequential release of stress.
It was dumb, having to volunteer at these races. My mom told me it would benefit me somehow, but I couldn’t see the value. It was mostly painful for me to watch. I mean, I used to win these things. And now I’m the stooge that hands out the dinky Dixie cups of Gatorade, only to have them thrown right back at me. In this gross rain. Embarassing.
I don’t mean to go off on some tirade where I just feel sorry for myself. I really don’t. I just miss running—so much that sometimes I think about going outside late at night, like three am (so my mom will not find out) and feeling the concrete beneath my feet, the swish of my ponytail, like a pendulum, the thumping of some crazy loud band in my headphones. I fantasize about this like people fantasize about winning the lottery. People don’t get it. When I tore my ACL, my track friends were jealous. “You get to miss practice! I wish I could just veg out at home like you,” said one of my less sensitive friends. Unlike most of them, I loved it. Running was my passion, and this ACL injury was really getting in the way.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I will run again. I literally can’t wait. I just hate that I have to start from scratch. I’ve been working on this since I was thirteen, and five years later I have to start all over again. My mom said volunteering at these races would make me feel better, but seeing all of the seasoned runners pass me by is depressing. It’s as if every muscle in my body is aching to join them, every fiber in my being is yelling let me run let me run let me run.
He had never expected to finish his first race, much less his second. Sure he was starting small, with a few 5Ks here and there, but each mile was huge to him. A mile was a milestone, and landmark, an achievement worthy of a memorial. Eli conquered them all and then some, running past 5Ks to 10Ks and half marathons and then a marathon. What had started as a personal test of endurance and perseverance had grown uncontrollably into what can only be described as an addiction. Each mile represented something different to Eli.
His first complete miles represented hope—a reason to continue running. If he could run three miles without walking, he was sure he could do anything. That’s why he started running in the first place. Eli wanted to prove something to himself. He wanted to try something new, something no one in his family did and something his friends didn’t really understand. He wanted to try it and he wanted not to fail. It was an experiment in his will, in his strength and in his dedication. If he had given up, he had no idea what his life would be like now.
When Eli crossed the finish line that morning, he had a smile on his face. His shirt was plastered to his back, a mixture of sweat and cold rain. He hadn’t won, but then, that hadn’t been his goal. He had worked for this. He had not given up. He had finished.
The 5K had been a complete success, despite the rain. Runners are a different class of people. They wouldn’t skip a race for something so trifling as drizzle.
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