One time several years ago, due to peer pressure and poor judgement, I walked a half marathon. 13.2 miles. I was thinking what you’re probably thinking. Who can’t walk 13 miles? I can do that. That’s no worse than a full day of shopping. Or chasing toddlers.
Riiiight.
A friend — a term I use loosely, and one of the many who encouraged me to participate — provided a training schedule, which I proceeded to ignore and procrastinate in alternating turns. I knew I should be getting ready, but at the end of the day, I was already pretty good at walking and in relatively good health. The training would just make the event more comfortable, right? Right.
On race day, having trained a grand total of zero minutes and as many miles, I lined up with my walking friends at the back of the pack. That’s a rule. It’s not posted anywhere or included in any of the race packet materials, but it’s a thing. If you’re not a runner, then you don’t know there’s a whole set of unwritten rules you have to follow and norms to which you will be simultaneously completely ignorant and absolutely expected to honor. Fortunately, I had runner friends there to translate and clue me in.
The really fast people lined up at the front. If the runners aren’t lined up yet, you can tell who these really fast people are because they limit the amount of clothing they wear to decrease friction and wind resistance. Their shorty-shorts (for the men), bra-tops, and bikini briefs (mostly for, but not restricted to, the women) cover and support the essentials so they can focus on the important task of moving really, really quickly.
Can you imagine? Being so fast that you’re concerned about the wind resistance created by an oversized t-shirt as you run? I’m usually most concerned with wearing a supportive enough sports bra and not falling down. Or being caught by whatever is certainly chasing me. And also making sure my shorts or pants are adequate to prevent chafing as my thighs rub together.
So, we take our positions at the back of the line. The shorty shorts and briefs adjust their race watches, not willing to leave the record keeping to the race-provided chips they’ve tied onto their shoes. I mostly spend my time asking myself if I have to pee again.
The gun goes off, and the race begins. The atmosphere really is exciting. It’s very communal, and people are so happy to be running nowhere in a pack early in the morning after driving an hour or more to get there. I count it as one of the great mysteries of the human experience, how people can be so happy running AND doing things in the morning.
I’m 5’1” and have short legs to boot, so it’s not long before my walking friends are tired of being slowed down and stride gracefully ahead to ultimately finish in front of some of the slower runners. My friend, Tricia, hangs back with me (even though she could push ahead) and sticks with me till the finish.
The middle details are boring. Lots and lots and lots of walking. Walking past houses, walking up hills and down hills, past people with signs in truck beds cheering us on, walking past blue porta-potties for those brave enough to stop moving and risk never, ever getting up again.
I finished with Tricia right beside me as the race staff starting breaking down the finish line, tents, and various stations. I was slow, and I didn’t know about not wearing cotton blend socks, so I had the biggest blisters I’ve ever seen covering the balls of my feet. I ate ibuprofen like Pez that day and the next, and hardly got off the couch for a good day and a half.
I think this is where you’re usually supposed to read some really motivating crap about how that half-marathon set me on a new trajectory, and I started running and doing triathlons and now I’m in the best shape of my life and I owe it all to the friends who pushed me and to that one race.
This is not that kind of story. And I am not that kind of person.
I did something that other people I liked were doing. I didn’t like doing it, and I never did it again. I did run a couple of 5k races at some point, one with a group of high school students I taught, and the other one with my dad, so there’s that. And also 5k is way less than a half marathon.
And I’ve been to a marathon, if that counts for anything. I watched my dad and a bunch of other strangers cross the finish line of the Little Rock Marathon, and I cried for all of them. I get why people do it, but I think I’m content to be the ridiculous woman crying for strangers at the finish line.
Lots of times in my life I’ve done things because other people wanted me to or thought I should, or because I thought other people wanted me to or thought I should. Well, not just lots of times, more like most of my entire life. That was a different me, though. She was not happier, or healthier, or better, but she sure was trying to prove she was.
This me loves my friends who run, and celebrates their accomplishments without envy, or comparison, or feelings of inadequacy. I mean specifically about running. I’m struggling in other areas to not envy, compare, or feel inadequate, but I’m good with my suck status as a runner.
I have friends who write, but we are on different journeys. I have friends whose kids are the same age as mine, but we don’t always parent the same way and we’re not raising the same kids. I have friends who weigh less and weigh more than me. I have friends who have less and have more than me. I have friends whose interests are similar to mine and friends with whom I actually don’t have all that much in common except we enjoy one another’s company when we’re together.
I have friends who love me for who I am, not for the races I run (walk, crawl, hobble, etc).
If you want to walk a half, then do it. But if you’re walking a half to prove yourself to someone else or to force a friendship that doesn’t fit, then you should probably sit down.
You’re gonna suffer through an experience that you don’t even enjoy, and the only person crying at the finish line will be you. You won’t be crying because of your pride in what you’ve accomplished or because of the life-changing experience you’ve shared with someone you love, you’ll be crying because you hurt and you’re miserable and you’re mad you even started this and you didn’t even see those friends when the race was over anyway.
Sometimes doing your own thing feels like being left out. That’s hard, and I’ve been there, too. But doing someone else’s thing isn’t always the answer, and it isn’t always better than being on your own.
If you spend a little time on your own now and then, you might just find you really enjoy the company.
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