In February of this year, I signed up to do The Giant Race 10K in San Francisco, which took place on August 4, giving me plenty of time to train. My coworkers in San Francisco wanted to do the event for a team-builder, which I thought was a great idea. We had three choices - a half marathon, 10K or 5K. My wimpy inner voice told me to go with the 5K, but since everybody else on my team seemed to be signing up for the half marathon, the 10K seemed like a reasonable and challenging option.
Since I walk close to three miles each weekday morning, training for the 10K got pushed to the weekends. I didn't follow a formal training plan, didn't join a group, and decided to train alone. I probably should have done something more structured, but I knew what I needed to do.
I needed to run.
Running is not natural for me, and for most of my life, I've hated it. It started in the second grade at Andy Woods Elementary School in Tyler, Texas. I had gangly arms and legs then, and at some point while running speed races on the playground at recess, someone noticed how ridiculous I looked when I ran. My long, skinny legs flailed around while the short boys watched and laughed. Soon enough, I had an nickname: Chicken Legs.
When it was time for kickball at recess, and the PE teacher made us pick teams (really, a very cruel practice if you're not athletic), I was usually second to the last next to whichever kid happened to be in a cast at the time. I got pretty good at avoiding running. I could kick the kickball up high and slow so it was easy to catch (Chicken Legs make for great kicking, evidently!). I'd get a stomach ache so I would be forced to sit out. I got really good at Tug of War so that was my sport of choice on Field Day. (Okay, fine, I wasn't good at Tug of War, either, but at least it beat running).
In college, I took tennis as an elective and the coach thought I had potential. I had a pretty strong two-handed backhand, and one day after class, he pulled me to the side and said,
"You could be a really good tennis player if you would run every now and then."
Evidently, if the ball came my way and was within my range of motion, I could return it without a problem. But if the ball required moving, I stayed put and watched it fly past.
The fear of being made fun of prevented me from enjoying so many things in life. Those silly bullies in elementary school are not to blame: I am. I gave full consent to allow people to make me feel inferior, despite the Eleanor Roosevelt quote my mother had hand-stamped on a card on my childhood refrigerator.
So I decided to sign up for the 10K, and vowed to run like no one was watching. And that's exactly what I did. I walked. I jogged. I wogged. Sometimes, I ran as fast as I could until my former chicken legs begged me to stop. But what I didn't do was give a rat's patootey what anyone thought.
This time, I didn't have chicken legs. Sure, I probably still look like that when I run, but my legs got stronger. And I got stronger along the way, stronger physically, but also stronger mentally. I remember once reading that Oprah said some mornings when she ran, her legs felt like steel pipes. And some mornings, my former chicken legs were steel pipes. On those days, I closed my eyes and convinced myself that my legs were as light as air. And I kept going, even if I needed to walk some along the way.
A few weeks before the race, I got jitters. I talked to a colleague who runs to ask for advice.
"Every water stop, get some water. Walk while you drink, then keep on running."
I took note of this, and a few weeks later, the same colleague sent this amazing Oatmeal piece on running to several coworkers, referring to the recipients as "runners". The mere fact that I was included on that email wiped away so much of my former Chicken Legs mentality. Was I really a runner? It was certainly beginning to feel that way.
When August 4 came around, I was ready. I had a killer playlist that was timed perfectly -- a great mix of dirty rap, 80's pop, and some random inspirational songs from different periods in my life. (And a little smooth jazz. Fine.)
I ate a few almonds and a little cheese, drank water and a Starbucks chai, and got in line with my pace group. The second grader in me wondered if the people who run a ten minute mile would turn around and laugh at me for being in the slow group, but I silenced that voice by realizing that I was doing a damned 10K!
The Giant Race is held along the Embarcadero in San Francisco, a nice flat course that takes you out 3 miles. The 10K runners hit 3 miles, then get routed back in the opposite direction while the half marathoners run an actual course. No offense to the race coordinators, but the race was terribly marked. If not for my MapMyRun app I couldn't have made it in the pace I ran, because I had no idea how far I'd gone or how much I had left, and for me, it's definitely a mental game.
But we did have water stops. Your guess is as good as mine if those water stops were on actual mile markers, but each time, I nearly barreled over a teen-aged volunteer, grabbing for water like it was my last sip, took a little walk break, thanked my coworker out loud for his great advice (even though he lives in North Carolina), and kept on going.
When I got to the three mile turn-around, I got a little jolt and felt like I had it made. Then a little while later, I started to wonder why the hell I signed up. I began complaining mentally. I was still concerned about the missing mile markers, when a fun man in neon pink knee-highs ran up beside me, and I yelled out loud dramatically,
"Does anyone know where we are?"
"We're in San Francisco, on the Embarcadero," a woman with a literal mind answered, as if random people just run 10Ks without knowing where they are.
"She means where are we mile-wise," said the guy in neon kneesocks, "We're at 4 miles. Come on mama, you've got this."
Neon Kneesocks Man stayed with me for a while, giving me a nice pep talk along the way, and then passed me in a flash of bright pink. I loved that man. Before I knew it, AT&T Park was in sight, and I was nearing the finish.
Before I went to San Francisco, I was cleaning out emails and stumbled on to an email my mother sent me several days before my 40th birthday last October -- a TED Talk by Amy Cuddy on body language. If you haven't seen this, it's pretty inspirational.
For some reason, my mom prefaced the video by stating that the video was worth watching, but was 20 minutes, so that alone caused me to delay watching it for nearly a year. What a sad commentary on our modern-day attention span!
I finally watched it, several weeks before the Giant Race, and it was so good, I watched it several times. I love the idea of striking a power pose and making yourself powerful. I love the concept of "faking it until you become it." I took that thought process with me when I ran.
The race ends inside Giants Stadium, directly on the field. It's pretty exciting, even after running 6.2 miles that early in the morning. I finished the race, red-faced and exhilarated, looking up in the stands for my husband and daughter, and as I crossed the finish line, I heard my husband's signature whistle.
And when I turned around, I left my chicken legs behind me for good, because now, I'm powerful. I faked it until I became it, and I must admit, it feels pretty good.
