A few months ago aforementioned overnight guest stopped the proceedings to say, off-handedly, "For someone who talks so much about running and cycling, I thought you'd be skinnier."
If I live to be one hundred, I will never, never forget how that made me feel.
A week later, on my way out the door for a run, I tripped and fell down the stairs, spraining my ankle, putting my spring half marathon on hold, and leaving me with nothing to do but to obsessively weigh myself and (equally obsessively) think about what he had said to me.
I thought you'd be skinnier.
***
I started running again, post-injury and post-rehab, three weeks ago.It's been a pretty mixed bag.
I am, hands down, one of the least naturally athletic people I know. Running doesn't come easily, and I don't often leave runs thinking That went great! I'm also, you know, sort of hard on myself, so I very rarely know that I did well on a run. And it means something to me to know, unequivocally, that I did well at something. I've been working really hard to ramp up the mileage, go for more runs alone, get to a point where I depend a little less on my running partner for motivation and a little more on myself.
My motivation these days seems to be that goddamn sentence.
I thought you'd be skinnier.
More than the sentence itself, it's how I reacted when he said it (and other horrible things) to me. I didn't kick him out of my house. I didn't call him out on his shit. I merely accepted that These are the things men think about when they see you. These are the things they have always thought. These are the things they will always think. Get used to it.
Looking back on that moment makes me feel weak.
***
Yesterday I ran my first race in years without my running partner. I ran it coming off of an injury and a bad night's sleep and after running without a watch for over a year. I had no idea what my pace was, I couldn't make an educated guess as to splits, but I knew that I had been running a little faster and that I might be able to set a new PR at this race. In the end, I grabbed a permanent marker, marked my old splits on the inside of my arm and guessed that I was probably running about fifteen seconds/mile faster. I thought that if I pushed myself I might be able to pick up another fifteen seconds a mile. I put those paces in a column next to my old PR and decided that if I crossed the finish line one second ahead of the old one, I would be pumped. If I crossed slower than the old PR, I would just call it a day and be pleased that I finished after coming off of a non-trivial injury a few weeks ago.
I beat my old PR by four and a half minutes.
This is, for those of you non-runners out there, not an insignificant improvement, especially over a four mile course.
This is, for those of you non-runners out there, not an insignificant improvement, especially over a four mile course.
When I crossed the finish line I was dry-heaving. My iliotibial bands promised to make my life miserable over the next forty-eight hours. I was red-faced and taking huge gulps of air. It was not a photogenic finish (mine never are). But despite the blorchiness of it, I was grinning like an idiot.
I mean, I would love it if all the running I do would translate into a more delicate figure, but that ain't going to happen.
I run to be strong.
That's it. That's the reason I run. It's the reason that guy's name is still on my Go for a Run list. He's not there because I want to be as skinny as he (and all the asshats like him) think I should be. He's there to remind me what it felt like to feel weak. He's there to remind me that I never want anyone to make me feel that way again.
There's an impossibly good photo of me from the race finish yesterday. It is (to me, at least) the sexiest photograph I've ever taken (despite, you know, being spandexed up). As of today, it's hanging with the Go for a Run list not because it's an inherently good photograph, but because it reminds me (in the inevitable moments of vulnerability that come with, you know, weighing yourself) of what it felt like to know, even at the cost of dry-heaves and tight iliotibial bands, what it was like to finally feel strong again.
***
Here's the secret, I don't run to be skinny.I mean, I would love it if all the running I do would translate into a more delicate figure, but that ain't going to happen.
I run to be strong.
That's it. That's the reason I run. It's the reason that guy's name is still on my Go for a Run list. He's not there because I want to be as skinny as he (and all the asshats like him) think I should be. He's there to remind me what it felt like to feel weak. He's there to remind me that I never want anyone to make me feel that way again.
There's an impossibly good photo of me from the race finish yesterday. It is (to me, at least) the sexiest photograph I've ever taken (despite, you know, being spandexed up). As of today, it's hanging with the Go for a Run list not because it's an inherently good photograph, but because it reminds me (in the inevitable moments of vulnerability that come with, you know, weighing yourself) of what it felt like to know, even at the cost of dry-heaves and tight iliotibial bands, what it was like to finally feel strong again.
No comments:
Post a Comment