"Watch out for the runner!"
I knew the Park Slope dad was just trying to keep his daughter from meeting harm via the crazy lady barreling through Prospect Park (that would be me.) But his words took on more meaning than he intended. Am I a runner? I hadn't thought of myself as one since before I'd started dating the Marathon Man.
Running had started as a lark for me. My ex, College Sweetheart, and I had signed up for a 5k to benefit brain cancer research back in 2006. It was a cause that was important to his family and it seemed like a worthy personal goal as well. It also seemed completely impossible. I'd never been athletic and running one mile was daunting, let alone three and change. But once we'd trained for the race and finished it, I was hooked. More 5ks followed, then 10ks, and eventually a couple half-marathons. Fancy shoes, GPS watches, wicking t-shirts, fresh air and fresh tunes on my iPod: I loved it all.
But when I started dating Marathon Man, I felt less proud of my running accomplishments. Right before our second date, he clocked in a sub-3:00 marathon. I felt good if I ran sub-10:00 miles. He routinely ran 10-15 miles in a daily workout; I was pleased if I could squeeze in 3 on the treadmill. And though he never disparaged my running, I started feeling less secure about it. When I met his law school friends at a party, one girl asked me, "So, are you a runner too?" "Not really. I mean, kind of, but not like MM" was my reply.
Fast-forward a month and a half, and I found myself nursing the wounds of a post-New Year's dumping. I'd spent my Christmas in a haze of daydreams and giddy, blossoming love, but Marathon Man had apparently spent his deciding that he didn't want to go the distance with me. And this morning, when I knew that he was running a half-marathon in Houston (and hating myself for remembering this, when I knew he wasn't thinking of me) I decided it was time to lace up my sneakers.
It was a temperate but gloomy January day in Brooklyn, and I'd lost my iPod charger so I had only my thoughts to keep me company. The trees were bare and everywhere the streets were full of strangers. (Ok...so maybe I've had Les Mis on the brain.) But as I pounded the pavement and the miles fell away, I realized that instead of indulging my inner Eponine, I'd started to feel...well, better. Marathon Man was probably running six-minute miles at that very second, and I sure wasn't. But who cares? I'd been subsuming my running into MM's, and it scared me to think how quickly I'd come to feel that it was no longer "my" thing. I'll never be the fastest runner in the world and I'll never be the slowest (well. Hopefully not.) But I'll still be a runner as long as I keep hitting the streets, whether I'm dating Usain Bolt or not. (Probably not.) And I hope that the next time around, I'll remember to keep dreaming my dreams, no matter how small they may seem.
And I will also try not to run over the small children of Brooklyn. (Sorry, kid.)
No comments:
Post a Comment