What’s running rock bottom? For me, it was being passed by a cow in a half marathon. The cow was ambling beside a fence, and she outpaced me on only about 100 meters. Still, she did it.
Until then, I’d been running for about five years. I was an O.K. runner, better than most. I didn’t expect to be offered a Nike sponsorship anytime soon, but I usually placed in the top three of women in my age group for local races. Prizes included a gift certificate to a taco joint called Macho Taco, a pair of Vibram FiveFingers Shoes and a gaudy trophy with what looks like a man on the top. Nothing fancy, but validation that I was doing something right.
But I let those items get to my head. If I could win those prizes in my first few years of running, what was to stop me from coming in No. 1 for my age group? My times were dropping with every race. I’d never run a marathon before, but I set out to qualify for the Boston Marathon first time out.
Then I got injured. Running — the thing that had been my daily salvation and the only pocket of time in my overscheduled day when no one else could bother me — became a chore. A painful, stabby chore that ended with me eyeing the tail end of a cow.
I thought about quitting. Maybe I’d take up biking. Maybe I’d become one of those power walkers with the bright white shoes who did laps around my town’s park.
But I wasn’t ready to give up running. I remembered the feeling of my first training runs, the head-clearing effect of getting out on the road. I just had to get past this perfection block.
So I signed up for every and any race that anyone suggested to me. My nagging injury — and slow pace — limited my weekday training. But I knew that if I plunked down $50 for a race, there was no way I wouldn’t be at the starting line.
A windy 10-miler at the Jersey Shore in March? I was game, even when it snowed on race day. The Credit Union Cherry Blossom Run to pace a friend? I had nothing to lose. Then there was the Asbury Park Half Marathon (anything to honor the home of Bruce Springsteen), the Philadelphia Broad Street Run (how can 30,000 other runners be wrong?), a 25K trail race (with aid stations managed by girls in leiderhosen handing out grilled cheese sandwiches and beer), and a 10K footrace I did on a dare with my boyfriend, who ran it with a broken toe.
I capped things off with a half marathon in June in the mountains of Virginia. I don’t like hot-weather running, and the race started 40 minutes late and ended in over 80-degree heat. Absolute misery, but those cheese-stuffed burgers after the race were tasty.
Seven races in 11 weeks. And along the way, I stopped racing races, and I started running races.
Jamming all those races into such a short time took the competition out of it. I wasn’t running for medals or gift certificates or free shoes. I ran because the courses were there, friends were there, the finish line was there.
I couldn’t tell you my times, or where I ranked among women or in my age group. I took out my GPS watch for only one of those races. And I never noted the difference between clock and gun time in my running log.
I let myself stop on the race course and talk to volunteers. I actually used the port-a-potty (runners, you’re so tidy!). I had that beer on the trail run, and grabbed a glass of wine during the last 1,000 meters of that Virginia race. I chatted with people at the finish line rather than try to get my official time and calculate my splits over water and bananas.
I’m training for a marathon again this fall, either the Philadelphia or the Bucks County Marathon. This time I’m training slowly, on a novice schedule. Maybe I’ll get in peak form eventually, but I’m not rushing it. I’m going to enjoy the open road. And a drink or two along the way.
