I'm blogging from the D.C. airport right now, on my way home from a surreal weekend with my sisters, my mom, my Lola, and my brand new nephew (more on that later).
Since I ate my weight in carbs and sugar this weekend, I knew I needed to squeeze in a run at some point in time. I designated Saturday as the day and kept vacillating between logging 8 or maybe 13 miles. (i think i knew this was never going to happen). But Saturday morning rolled around, and after my sister and Matt endured an 18th consecutive sleepless night, I needed to stick around and hold my little nephew while they attempted to squeeze in a few short hours of shut-eye. Audrey and her brood, my mom and Lola showed up a few hours later, ordering pizza, and my hopes of squeezing in a run were gradually diminishing as the day wore on. Who wants to run 13 miles with a belly full of vegetarian pizza? Sick.
But then at 3:00 p.m., things settled and my chance to step outside finally arrived. Despite the drizzle and chill, my body was tingling with that familiar combination of anticipation mixed with dull dread. The first mile of every run just sucks. But I put one foot in front of the other and began finding a rhythm. I turned down one street and made a left onto Main. I passed a few smokers and window shoppers and then I spotted a fellow runner going the other direction on the opposite side of the street. He was a big, black guy wearing a red fleece, blue track pants and a beanie. I liked the way he loped along, like he was going somewhere with a purpose, and in that instant, I decided to change my course and follow that dude.
After approximately 200 yards (with me trailing behind), we came to a stoplight. He was busy jogging in place as we waited for the light to change, and I innocently looked in the opposite direction for fear he might realize I was following him. The lights changed and we were on our way. I stayed several yards behind him, but I kept him always within sight. He never knew I was behind him, and we continued on like this for 3 miles.
Then all of a sudden, he turned around and started coming back the other way. I wasn't quite sure what to do then... "Do I turn around, too?" I thought. I could feel my face start to flush in embarrassment. I looked down as we started to pass each other, but in that moment, he said, "What's up!" and high-fived me. He high-fived me! I was totally euphoric. In that moment, we were no longer strangers. We were comrades. We understood each other. We were runners.
He continued back the way we came and I turned down a perpendicular street. But though we went our separate ways then, I smiled thinking about this kinship I felt out there on a random street in Pennsylvania with this random stranger who unknowingly motivated me for three miles of that run. I decided then that running isn't a solo sport. Not really. We are all just part of a community of like-minded people who get that logging in the miles on our feet is hard and hurts but there is satisfaction when all is said and done. No one regrets finishing a run.
I went 6.39 miles that day.
p.s. This photo is from The Woodlands Half Marathon one month ago. My time was 1:51:54.
