Waddle on

Tomorrow I "run" my first marathon. To say that I am scared is an understatement.

I am petrified.

My last long "run" was three weeks ago and I did the last five miles in interminable pain. All I wanted to do was curl up and depreciate on the side of the trail. If I'd done that, though, I still would've had to get home, and since there wasn't any other way to get home, I just kept on walking. (Yes, by that point I was walking. Hence my terrible fear.) Marathoners often have mantras to keep themselves going, things like, "Yes! We! Can!" or "Almost there!". My mantra on my last run was, "Ignore the pain."

Rather than dwell on my fear, though (or snap at the Captain and seethe at our houseguests), I've decided to remind myself of why I run as a kind of reassurance.

I run because I want to. I run because I can. I run because if I don't, I develop a kind of depression so subtle I don't even notice - until I run again and feel exhilarated. Earlier this year I had to sit out two months and I entered a period of mourning. I grieved for the pleasure of running, of finding that a distance once impossible was later no big deal. I grieved for the sense of accomplishment of pushing myself - and succeeding.

When I finally started running again I thought I had been reborn. I had bad days and slow days and walked-more-than-I-wanted-to days, but I also had good days. Days when my legs were strong and my body was fast. Days when fourteen miles were like a walk in the park. Days when I felt so coordinated and perfect I felt closer to God. Truly. On days like that I rejoiced in the wonder of creation and the gift of the human body. On days like that my running was prayer.

It is unlikely that tomorrow will be one of those days. But it might. And those moments of joy are so pure they are worth chasing.