The finish line is in sight. My lungs are on fire, my legs feel like cement, and I’m pretty sure my soul is trying to leave my body. My best friend is running (slowly) alongside me, a partner in this shambling torment.
We’re about to finish a 10K, and I’m wondering how I got here.
I was never a runner. As a kid, I sang in choir and played video games. I avoided physical exertion like it was eye contact with a mall kiosk employee. Running was something you did when you were being chased, not something you did voluntarily.
But as middle age settles in, I’ve realized that I need to be more physically active because — like eating vegetables — it sucks. I mean, it’s good for me.
So I downloaded one of those couch to 10K apps and got going.
Slowly. Running as an adult is an extra ache you don’t need. Your body protests. Your lungs scream. Your knees file formal complaints. Especially if your athletic career ended sometime around t-ball.
And yet… after it’s over?
That post-run endorphin rush? That’s the scam. That’s how it gets you. One minute, you’re swearing off running forever. The next, your brain is dumping feel-good chemicals, and you’re thinking, Maybe I should do this again!
And that’s why I keep doing it. Not because I love it — because I absolutely do not. But because I love having done it.
Despite my television-watching genetics, I saw improvement. Week after week, my endurance grew. The first time I ran five miles without stopping, I felt like I’d won an Olympic medal, even though my audience was five other early birds at the YMCA.
Back to that 10K: Even though we were running, the course was a lovely tour of downtown Austin, with bands playing on the sidewalk and onlookers shouting encouragement. Some runners wore costumes (a few psychos even participated in full suits).
As we neared the finish line, my mood brightened. People cheered. We picked up the pace. For a fleeting moment, I thought, Wow, I might actually be an athlete. Maybe I should have done this sooner.
Then, a loudspeaker crackled to life, announcing that an elderly woman (in my recollection, she was in her 80s) was about to finish the race.
We were not elderly. We were in our early 30s. And we were about to get smoked by an AARP member.
My friend turned to me. “RUN!”
We took off in a sprint, fueled by adrenaline and the terror of being beaten by a woman who almost certainly had grandkids our age.
I don’t know who won. As we crossed the finish line, I heard the announcer celebrating this incredible woman’s race. Good for her. If I’m still out here running races in my 80s, I’d want a standing ovation, too.
After the race, we celebrated at a pizza buffet, easing our tired legs into a booth, inhaling slices like we’d truly earned them. Because at the end of the day, running sucks, but the stories that come from it? They’re worth it.
I won’t ever be the kind of person who wakes up at 5 a.m. excited to hit the pavement. I won’t be the person who “just loves” running, like some kind of deranged masochist or a realtor. But I’ll keep doing it because it’s good for me, and because I paid $140 for these running shoes.
And maybe, one day, I’ll be that 80-something at the finish line, making some 30-year-olds sweat a little.
My calves hurt just thinking about it.
