By Elly Mullins
One morning I woke up and decided I wanted to run a marathon. This was not a latent idea that had been swirling around my brain, though I was a regular runner living in a runner’s city. But Boston had just experienced an attack during the marathon, and I felt moved by the feeling of community resilience that surrounded me.
I began training by plotting out a schedule. I came up with a plan that had me running a minimum of 30 miles a week starting in week one. I was already programmed to run at least 6 miles during my afternoon runs – when I wasn’t even training for anything. So I assumed I should just start from where I was and build up.
Then I consulted the experts, Hal Higdon and Jeff Galloway. Both of these coaches have books and websites dedicated to supporting runners (and non-runners) to achieve the same goal: completing a 26.2 mile run, safely. Both coaches also make the same point in their guides: start low and slow.
I examined my plan against theirs, and I realized that mine emphasized a goal of accumulating high mileage every week, but it didn’t take into consideration the long-term physical and mental effects of endurance running. They caution that week after week, the high mileage would wear on my body and, at times, my spirit; so, a gradual build toward the higher mileage would be safer.
Both programs also stress the importance of rest, which is necessary for muscle recovery. Indeed, when our bodies aren’t being pushed to move, this gives our minds a moment to check-in with different parts, assess how they are operating, and tend to them.
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The periods of rest are also important for mental recovery, and likewise, we have a moment to check in with the different parts of ourselves and assess how we are feeling. For me, running had always functioned as a way to process my days, reflect on my relationships, and refocus my concentration. But now that I was running greater distances, I found my thoughts shutting off as I hit my stride, and the physical movement became an exercise in mindfulness. Yet, meditation is not the same as rest.
During these rest days, I went to work, came home, and relaxed. I’d pour a bowl of cereal and sit in front of the TV, sometimes falling asleep on the couch. Or, I’d drive to the woods for a walk, find a rock next to the reservoir, and just bask in the sun, listening to music. Letting my body be still allowed me to feel the aches in my hips that needed icing, and I also started to sense the muscles in my legs regenerating, growing more powerful. On the go, the only bodily sensations I noticed were the soreness, the chafing, and the thirst for something to drink. In stillness, however, I could bring attention to my strength.
On the day of the marathon, I knew I could run great distances, but I was still not sure if I was ready. My last long-run had been 20 miles in the mountains of the Adirondacks, an out-and-back course through steep hills, in an unfamiliar place. Somehow, I managed to get disoriented and felt as though I had gotten lost. The panic that took over prevented me from recognizing all of the landmarks I had noted during the first half of the run. This rattled my nerves on the day of the race. But I was reassured by the fact that there would be 30,000 other people running the course with me – and I couldn’t get lost.
During the race, I followed a steady pace, a familiar rhythm to my body after months of training. But 26.2 miles was still much longer that the 20 I had run 3 weeks prior. This race would add another hour to the longest run I had ever completed – and that would be on top of 3 hours of running. As I moved along the course, I felt my feet swelling and my body growing weary. I watched as runners of all shapes, ages, and sizes ran past me, and I knew that my ability to complete the run would have more to do with my determination than my level of fitness.
When I felt my muscles begin to tense, I pulled over, stretched, and took a quick and necessary break. I felt renewed enough to keep going. I did this several times in the second half of the race: I let my body stop, I checked in with the pain, and I embraced the moments of pause. By the end, those moments were what enabled me to cross the finish line.
I also watched as others stumbled to the sidelines, checked in with themselves, and chose to leave the course. Today wasn’t their day. But maybe this was their second race; or maybe the pause they needed would be a few months or years. Did it matter? We all showed up: some finished, and some didn’t. And the only scorekeepers that were paying attention were the ones in our own heads.
After the race, I could barely move. Every part of me throbbed as I tucked myself into bed that afternoon. I had planned to meet my friends and share a celebratory round of beers at a nearby bar. But the friends and the beers could wait. What my body needed was to heal, and over the next 12 hours, it laid motionless between the sheets, happy to just rest.
Photo by Capstone Events on Unsplash
