Back in the 70s, there was a “movie of the week” called “See How She Runs.” Joanne Woodward (who won an Emmy for her performance) plays a 40 year-old divorced mother who decides to run the Boston Marathon. She initially gets no support from her bratty kids or her ex-husband, but she is strong-willed and determined to do something for herself, for a change. Running becomes her life and she makes it to the marathon.
Let’s fast forward to the end (I will give a **SPOILER ALERT**, but this is a 44 year-old movie). She’s got a bandage around her knee, she’s limping, she’s in obvious pain, there’s blood running down her leg, they are starting to dismantle the equipment at the finish line, and her daughter is begging her father to stop her, but he doesn’t because NOW he’s very supportive, and she would never forgive him. Three dudes just hanging out on the street observe her struggle, start betting each other about whether she’ll make it, and head on down to the finish line to wait. Now, it’s dark, and she’s still struggling. She’s in the middle of the road with cars honking on either side of her. She can barely see. But she’s RIGHT THERE! The finish line is in sight! She stumbles toward it, stops, and then…crumbles to the asphalt. NOOOOO!! Everyone is looking on with pity and horror. Her daughter turns her head because OMG she just cannot watch anymore. It looks hopeless. Then someone yells, “C’mon lady, get up!” Of course it wasn’t one of her family members, but one of the three dudes who was betting on the end result of her pain and struggle. That’s enough to get her back on her feet. She starts running! Everyone is cheering! Her family is cheering, her friends are cheering, the three dudes are cheering, her cop friend from her precinct is cheering, and I’m BAWLING!!! She runs through a ribbon that her friends found on the ground and were holding for her because they wanted her to have something to run through! She made it! And….scene.
My story is not nearly as dramatic. I did start running when I was 42, but it wasn’t to train for a marathon. I was having difficulty dealing with depression, and I thought running might help. So, I just started running. Actually, it was more like run maybe 50 yards, then walk, then run a little again, then give up and walk the rest of the way. My stylish running outfit was a pair of beaten-up, old, funky, Hanes sweatpants and a concert T-shirt.
I did this run/walk thing for awhile and was about to give up because I just felt hopelessly out of shape, but a friend encouraged me to continue. This was how he started, and he was now running marathons. I kept trudging on, and eventually I was running more than walking, then I was able to run a loop around the neighborhood without stopping, then a mile, then 2 miles. I even bought a nice pair of running tights.
Eventually, I ran my first 5k, and then my first half marathon (badly, but I finished). I went on to run about eight more half marathons (all badly, but again, I finished them all). I actually found an interest that I seemed to have a passion for, and I thought I would never lose it.
Then I lost it. I had another depressive episode that was brought on by a horrible work environment at a new job (not the current one}. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything, let alone running. I eventually pulled myself out of it, but it had been about nine months since I had done any regular running. When I did start running again, I found that I had lost much of what I had worked so hard for.
That’s where Stupid Anxiety decided to butt in and fuck everything up again. I couldn’t face the fact that I was back to practically collapsing halfway around the block, when it seemed like just a short time ago I was finished 13.1-mile races. It got to a point where I actually seemed to develop a phobia of running outside. I had this ridiculous image in my head of neighbors clucking their tongues and saying to each other, “It’s a damn shame, she used to be so much better.” On gorgeous, sunny days, when I should have been on the trails, I was running on my treadmill in my basement, where no one could see me.
I kept telling people I was going to get back into running. My husband would ask me once in a while, out of concern, because I had once loved it so much. I felt terrible each time he asked because I really wanted to run again. I just….couldn’t. He even bought me this:
Most of these are finishers medals from half marathons. Not bad for someone who only started running in her 40s. I think I still have some races in me, if I can just kick Stupid Anxiety’s ass and get back out there. In the past week of writing this post (yes, that’s how long it’s taken), I have donned the running shoes and tights. No, I am not in the shape I was in before, but I have accepted that. I no longer feel like the neighbors pitying my downfall (anxiety is a liar).
I am determined to turn the “She believed she could, so she did,” into “I believe I can, so I will.” Again.
To be continued…