The Anti-Runner

You might not know by looking at me. My physical appearance is not clear evidence. I am middle-aged, round in the middle, my legs are thick at the top and my upper arms flap in the wind. With these physical deficits, you might not guess I am a runner. Not a jogger, a runner.

 

What’s the difference? A race bib. I don’t mean a bib that keeps spaghetti sauce from staining your shirt. I’m talking about a bib that you wear when you run in a competitive race. The bib, usually pinned to the front of a shirt, displays a number in 4-inch digits and denotes the right to participate in the competition. The difference between a jogger and a runner is that one enters a race and the other thinks about entering a race. However, it all starts with running.

 

I didn’t just wake up one day, lace up my Nike’s and start running. I’ve been running for decades. As a high school student I was long, lean and built for running. Not so much now, time changes everything, especially the body. I was a member of the track team and the only girl to attempt running in the 110-yard hurdle event.There are scars on my knees to prove I tried at least. I was not the fastest. In fact, I won a single ribbon during my high school running career, third place. It didn’t matter. I loved running. I felt free. If I could run fast enough, I could leave behind anything.  I was a runner not a jogger. But I digress with tales of glory.

 

My running career has been off and on. Mostly off until the birth of my third son. My decision to start running again hinged on my need to get out of the house and dreams of being long and lean again. I never considered doing anything but jogging.  I jogged and jogged, miles and miles, pushing a stroller designed for jogging moms with babies. We, me and my baby son in his stroller, circled the neighborhood lake, park and playground. We traversed across hundreds of intersections and in no time I was comfortable calling myself a runner. However, I was missing one important credential, a race bib. So, I entered a race.

 

My siblings, a younger brother and sister, decided we should test our running ability and be runners. We should enter a race together. The race couldn’t be too short, like a 5K or a 10K. Our ability would not be tested. The perfect distance, we decided, would be a marathon, 26.2 miles. We all, siblings and spouses, registered for the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. The race was scheduled for October 31, 2001.

 

Once I completed the entry form and mailed my registration fee, I went from a jogger to a runner. Transferring from a jogger to a runner and attempting to run further at one time than I have ever run meant training. Training then translates to more running around the neighborhood lake and playground. I did just that for several months. Just after my longest run in the history of my running, ten miles to be exact, it happened. Two planes crashed into the World Trade Centers in New York, one flew into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and another crashed into a rural field in Pennsylvania.

 

Fear swept across the nation. Fear gripped my decision to skip the race. I’ll never know if I could have completed the race. It wasn’t easy to stay home, safe and sound. Especially knowing my brother and sister decided to participate in the race that included running past the site where a dark, gaping hole was still evident in the Pentagon, a reminder of what had happened just weeks before.

 

Fortunately, fear subsides and is replaced by resolve. The miles I used as training for the Marine Corps Half-Marathon did not go to waste. I have continued to be a runner. Each year my brother, his wife and I run a half-marathon in Jackson, Mississippi. Crossing the finish line is still one of the greatest thrills. It doesn’t matter how long it takes me to complete the race, the physical and emotional elation that explodes as I step over the finish line is better than winning the lottery. I almost always weep happy tears. I have crossed the finish line in more than ten half-marathons now and a couple of shorter distances. I am never first, nor will I ever be, but I am also never last. Although I finish, the next day, no one ever says to me, “hey, you look like a runner.” I know, however, I know. I’m a runner.