Let me explain.
This race is a defining moment for me.
Scratch that.
This whole experience: the training, the failures, the successes, all of it has been a defining moment for me.
If you're not familiar with the Broad Street Run, it is the country's largest 10 mile race. 40,000 runners will follow a course straight through the heart of Philadelphia on Sunday, May 3rd.
I'm one of the 40,000. In fact, my race bib is #39450. I don't know if I was one of the last 50 to get into the race or if I'm one of the 50 slowest. Either one is a strong possibility.
This is my first 10 mile race. In fact, it is the first race I have ever entered that is longer than 3.2 miles.
A lot of people have been asking me when I tell them I am running it, "Have you always been a runner?"
Every single time I hear that question I laugh out loud. Sometimes I wonder if what they really mean by "have you always been a runner" is actually "so is this easy for you... you know, like second nature?"
The answer is a resounding HELL NO.
I have never before been a runner. In fact, in high school I played field hockey, and the thing I hated most about the sport was running. I only ran because I had to get in good enough shape to play. Running was a necessary evil.
So what changed? A lot of things, really. I had my first child in 2010, and I was unhappy with the extra baby weight. I heard about a 5k coming up in the spring that a group from church was running, and I thought hey, I think maybe I could do that. I trained for 3 months, I lost most of the weight, and I completed the race.
Running became an opportunity to get outside without my kids, listen to music with lyrics I'm not allowed to play in the car (Meghan and Katy I'm talking to you), and an opportunity to push myself. I started to think maybe there was something to this whole running thing.
A few months after my first 5k my dad, sister, and brother were diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. It is a genetic disease that is progressive. It takes over your whole body, weakens muscles, and causes extreme fatigue. My dad had been showing symptoms for a while, but for years no one was able to diagnose it.
My dad used to be a marine. He could run 15 miles with a 40 pound pack on his back. He used to fly planes, play tennis, was an avid skier. This disease has changed all that. It's taken away a lot of what he loved to do. I've watched the progression of it and I've felt helpless to do anything about it. I can't cure it, can't change it, can't make it go away.
But I can run.
What's the connection?
For me, when I am out there running I'm feeling my heart beat fast, my lungs burn, my legs ache. And I feel alive. I think about how I am the only one of my siblings who was spared the disease, and I think I run because I can. I run because it's hard. I run because with every single step I feel like I'm fighting for my family. I'm doing something hard because they do something hard every single day.
After my son was born in 2013 I set a huge goal for myself. To run a half marathon. 13.1 miles. About 6 weeks before the race I injured some cartilage in my knee and ended up having knee surgery. That was October 3, 2014. I was crushed that I had spent so many months training only to fail at my goal. The day I went in for surgery the doctor asked me if I was ready. I remember looking him in the eye and saying, "I'm ready. I'm running Broad Street in May."
After the surgery the doctor said he'd found arthritis already starting in that knee. He said in the big picture, running long distances probably wouldn't be the best idea for me.
I spent almost 3 months in physical therapy to get my knee strong again. I wrapped my mind around the fact that I would need to adjust my goals and accept my physical limitations.
But Broad Street was still calling my name. It was the impossible goal.
I started back into some short runs. My knee was feeling pretty good. Sometimes it would hurt because I was so paranoid about whether or not it was going to hurt. I was afraid to push it too hard.
Then in January, I saw that they had announced the day of the Broad Street lottery. It would be held in early February. It was now or never. I had to decide then and there if I was going to do this thing.
I signed up. I held my breath. The day I got the email that I had been accepted into the race I was both excited and terrified.
What if I failed? What if my body failed me again?
And see that's where things started to change. I realized that my fear of failure was not stronger than my determination. I also realized that whether or not I actually finished the race wasn't the biggest point. The point was to put myself back out there, push my limits, take a risk.
I started telling everyone who has ears that I was running Broad Street. Some of you might think I'm bragging. That could not be further from my motivation. In fact, I told everyone I knew so that whenever I thought about quitting I'd remember the sheer number of people I would have to face and admit that I had quit. It was my insurance policy to keep going.
I trained for 3 months. In that time I had to take off a week while my husband was away and my kids refused to stay in babysitting at the gym. Then I had to take off another 2 weeks for bronchitis.
My training hasn't been what I'd hoped.
But isn't that life?
We plan ahead. We set goals. We hope for the best. And sometimes life doesn't cooperate.
But I am wiser this time around. I'm listening to my body more. I'm reminding myself that just the fact that I didn't give up in the middle of this training is a win.
That's the great thing about running. I've always been a competitive person. I'm in it to win it. But with running, even though it is a race, I'm not racing anyone but myself. I'll never be an elite runner. I am the back of the pack, last corral, 11 minute mile and proud of it girl. And with every single mile I clock, I've won.
For that mile, I have silenced the demons of doubt, discouragement, fear, and negativity. For that mile I have proven to myself that I am stronger than I thought I was. For that mile I am truly alive.
Tomorrow is race day. It is exactly seven months to the day from when I had my knee surgery. It is going to be the culmination of a long journey filled with disappointment and some failures. But mostly, it is going to be the moment when all of my hard work and refusal to give up is rewarded by the satisfaction of knowing I have just done something I literally thought was impossible. The big shiny medal around my neck is just a plus.
I looked up the definition of bragging. It says that it is saying something in a boastful manner. One synonym is "swagger."
You know what? I do have a little bit of a swagger. And it is not the "I'm better than you swagger." No, it's the I just did what I thought I could never do swagger. And I am owning it.
That is the other great thing about runners. I never used to call myself that, but let's face it, I am one now. The running community is full of people who are doing something they never thought they could do. And they love to celebrate each other. I have friends who could LITERALLY run Broad Street twice before I even finish it once. And you know what they're saying to me? Jenny, I am so proud of you! You are amazing! I have a friend that ran it in the past, and whose time I could never come close to. And you know what she said to me today? Jenny, I am so proud to know you.
It doesn't matter how fast you go, how far you go, what races you actually complete. We're all in it together. We're cheering for each other.
I saw a snarky Facebook post about "runners just shut up" today. It was funny, it made me laugh. It probably does get annoying when people post all day about their runs. But clearly the author doesn't get it. I know that's cliche, but really he just doesn't get it. We're not posting because we think we're better than you. We're posting because we just feel so alive. We are doing what we didn't think we could. We're not judging you. We're not saying you should do it. We're just so grateful for the experience.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am incredibly nervous. I literally tear up every single time I think about it. It might be corny. I don't care. This IS a big damn deal.
I'm running for my dad. I'm running for me. I'm running because I can. And I am really, really, proud of what I have done.
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