Race #3
dawned on a gorgeous 4th of July morning. Even at 6am, the promise of heat hung heavy
in the air-like a warm blanket at the wrong time of year. As I walked down 900 East in Provo towards
the starting line of the Freedom Run, each step carried a silent moan full of
pain, and each breath held a prayer that I’d make it through this race.
The few
days leading up to this race, I’d been under extreme stress trying to complete
my thesis by all the deadlines so I wouldn’t have to pay more tuition that I
couldn’t afford. Stress for me equals
very little eating and GI troubles. Then
the day before the race, I had a doctor’s appointment that turned out to be
very unpleasant. Without going into too
much detail, he’d had to scrape a sharp instrument over most of my legs from
knees to the very top, leaving painful, bleeding spots dotting most of the area,
especially the backs of my legs. I wasn’t
able to return to work and had to lie on my stomach in pain the rest of the
day. The doctor had said if I bandaged
them up well the next day I could still go run my race. But I was thinking, how in the world am I
going to do this? Tears threatened to
fall most of the day as I tried to work from home and not worry about the next
day’s race. Because the previous race’s
time had been slower, I really wanted to do better this time.
My dad
taught me a valuable lesson when I was 8 years old. He took me to my very first softball
practice. Since I was at the age border,
the Bobby Sox organizers had let me choose whether I wanted to play T-ball or fast
pitch with the big girls… and of course I chose being around the big girls! I was the shortest girl on my team- and the
fastest. Which meant the pitchers couldn’t
pitch well to me, so I walked most of the time.
And I was so small and so fast that by the time they realized I was
stealing second, it was too late. But
anyway, back to that first practice. I
was nervous, but excited at the same time.
My dad offered to be my partner in warm-ups, throwing the ball back and
forth as we had countless times at home.
Then one throw went straight to my face and hit me in the head. Man did it hurt!
I started
crying and dad came over to check on me.
I said, “I want to go home. I can’t
do this, that hurt.” My dad said, well,
it’s your choice, Mandy. You can choose
to go home and I will still love you.
Or, you can choose to stay and you just might find that as you practice,
you’ll get better, and discover softball is something you love. Then you’ll be glad you kept trying and didn’t
give up. But whatever you decide, I’ll
support you and love you. Hmmm… to an 8
year old, this was quite a big decision.
Because I trusted my dad, and knew he was usually right about things,
and because I didn’t want to let him down, I decided to stay and keep trying.
Little did
I know then how that day would set the course for the rest of my life. I wound up loving softball and learned that you can’t quit at the beginning of
something new. It takes time to learn
something and to know if you love it or not, so you just keep going, bruises,
embarrassments and all. And that’s how I’ve
always been throughout my life.
Thinking
about this experience 25 years ago, I made up my mind that I would run in the
Freedom Run. I’d figure out a way to
bandage all the sores so I could do it.
I wasn’t a quitter.
I barely
slept that night because of the pain and being uncomfortable. But I got up, wrapped gauze around most of my
upper thighs (which made me look very strange in my tight black exercise capris),
and headed down to the starting line.
The gauze thankfully cushioned the worst areas, but there was still pain
and awkwardness. I hoped the gauze wouldn’t
fall down during some part of the race, especially considering we’d be going
down the parade route for most of the way, and that could be very
embarrassing. Kermit was also running in
the race, but he was doing the 10k so we wouldn’t see each other until he got
to the finish line. But he had
encouraged me the night before and I didn’t want to let him down either.
Standing
with my pace group, I was really nervous and my stomach was in knots. This race was different because I knew that
the lack of sleep, food, and abundance of pain would all affect my race. When it was time to go, I took off, feeling
pretty good for the first 1.5 miles.
Then I realized I’d gone way too fast at the beginning and had to stop quite
a few times. This race taught me the
importance of pacing yourself, no matter how short or long the race. The pain was bearable but I didn’t know how I’d
make it to that finish line. I was spent
and worried the sweating and movement might make the sores worse. But I didn’t stop. Hearing cheering crowds helped quite a bit, as
did knowing I’d see Kermit not long after crossing the finish line as
well. So I kept going, kept pushing,
even though I felt like I had nothing left.
The last
quarter mile or so was all uphill, and I had to stop 3-4 times to walk. By this point, I didn’t care what my time
was, I just wanted to finish! As we got
closer to the finish line, my body was screaming at me from everywhere to stop,
but I couldn’t cross the finish line walking.
So, not only did I keep running, but I gathered up everything I had left
and sprinted the last little bit and across that finish line. I was so relieved to have finished, tears
threatened to fall down my sweaty cheeks.
I did it! I couldn’t believe
it. My time was atrocious- 33 min 10 sec
for a 5k, much slower than my first two races.
But I didn’t care. I was grateful
I’d had the strength and tenacity to just keep going.
Not only
did I learn to keep fighting through pain during a race, I also learned about
something I’m guessing every runner experiences at some point- a tough recovery
post-race. Not long after Kermit crossed
the finish line and we celebrated his amazing finish time, I started feeling
soooo sick. He tried to get me to eat
and drink something (which I’d already done before he finished) but being
stubborn, I wouldn’t. I sat down on the
ground instead and just sat there in a daze for a while. I felt like if I moved, I’d get sick, and
since we’d only known each other a couple weeks, I did not want to vomit in
front of him. After much more prodding
and nudging and telling me I’d be hurting much more the next day if I didn’t
get up and move, I finally stood up very slowly. But I still felt woozy and sick. After walking a bit, and trying to convince
myself I was going to be fine, I started feeling better. But that was not a pleasant experience. And Kermit was right- the next day, I was
really sore. I don’t know if my
hypoglycemia had anything to do with it.
But I never want to feel like that after a race again. So, I learned the value of good nutrition and
sleep. Yes, you can run a race when you’re
in pain. But it’s much easier if you’ve
been eating well and getting enough Z’s.
You would
have thought this would have discouraged me from running more races- but just
the opposite began to happen. But you’ll
have to wait until the next blog to hear more about that.
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