2 years, 10 months, 4 days... that's how long it had been since I last raced. 1034 long days of zapping leg pain, extraordinary unbearable back pain, long, arduous physiotherapy sessions, uncontrollable tears, nearly $17000 in chiropractic bills, and one very strong will to ignore my first doctor's plight – "Sorry kiddo. You're not going to run again." – and get back to doing what I love best. Running.
I am not a good runner. I'm neither fast nor consistent. My stride is weird. My feet are gnarly. But man, do I love to run.
I used to run up to 10 races a year. For the hell of it. Because it's fun. And it's a challenge. And I like to challenge myself to be better, faster, healthier. And for the last 12 years, it's been my go to – to sort things out, to push my limits, to exceed barriers, to feel alive. It has been my religion.
Then I hurt my back.
And for a while there – a long while – i felt like crossing a finish line again was a distant dream. I could see it, but not touch it. And it was fading. I ached for it. I never appreciated it when I had it. When it was gone, I wanted nothing more than to feel the crisp wind in my face and rhythm of my runners pounding the pavement like a heartbeat.
But in all those dark days, I never lost the will to run. When doctors, chiropractors, physiotherapists, massage therapists, personal trainers, and other specialists asked: "What's your goal?" – I consistently said "To run again."
So I gave everything I had – all my money, all my energy, all my time, all my heart – and I poured it into the dream.
For 2 years, 10 months, and 4 days, one of my half-marathon race pictures has been taped to my mirror – right in my line of vision. "You can't really see yourself", a friend said once mocking its positioning. "Oh yes, I can." I said. I have looked at that image, arms thrust in the air, rosy cheeks, a face that's equal parts exhausted and elated, every morning and every night for 1034 days. I saw her and knew I would be her again.
I am rarely happier than I am at a finish line. It moves me.
Progress has been slow but positive. Six months ago I was finally able to lace up and run again. Like really run. I started small, running slow, trying to stay positive while grannies passed me on the sea wall. Finally, in December, I felt confident enough to sign up for a race again.
The race: a 5k – a distance I used to consider piddly, but one that I now am grateful to be able to run. It wasn't too long ago that I couldn't even walk more than two blocks without pain. I spent a lot of time crouched on curbs wishing for a friend with a car to drive by.
An added joy: I competed with my brother and my dad. A highlight of my life, to tell you the truth. Who would of thought we'd share a love of running after all these years?
29 minutes and 2 seconds from the start, I arrived at the finish line, exhausted, dry heaving, and triumphant. My fastest time ever on a 5k – even before I hurt my back. I surprised myself. And it felt good.
My brother, sis-in-law, nephew, niece, step-mom, and friend were on the sidelines cheering – big smiles, high fives. It was glorious. My dad put his arm around me as he blazed into the finishing shute only seconds after me.
For me, personally, this race was may more than a time. It was a victory over all the naysayers who told me it would be impossible to run again. It was a slap in the face to the doctor who told me to "find a new hobby". It was a triumph over an injury that sidelined me and tried its darndest to control my life and keep me down. It was a moment of personal joy, achievement, and pride – far bigger and more emotional than I ever expected.
I have crossed over a hundred finish lines in my life. But this one was the one I earned the most.
