Run away
I was never the athletic type. Having to spend much of my childhood in the company of doctors and nebulizers, I knew early on that sports was not for me.
But the past year has taken me on a new track.
The rigors of sports training demand a certain kind of crazy. After a harrowing turn of events—from the end of a relationship to a familial jeopardy—I’ve found my own taste of madness. The thing about heartbreak is it always feels familiar, yet it never strikes the way we expect it to. That time, the anguish I went through felt exclusive, like I was the only one who had this big ball of sadness that no one else in the world could understand.
The feeling robbed me of decent sleep for days. After finding myself red-eyed for yet another week, I knew I had to do something to silence the constant chatter in my head. I woke up one morning eerily early for my body clock, at a loss on what to do with my free time.
I didn’t want to waste my morning aimlessly scrolling through my phone, or worse, blankly staring at the ceiling until the sun rises. So when I found my mother’s barely used running shoes by the door, I immediately put them on as if the act would protect me from further wasting yet another second.
The first time I laced up, I went for a slow, five-kilometer run on the treadmill. It was six in the morning and no one else was in the gym. There was just me, the folk-pop music blasting on my iPod, and my relentless will to shut up the demons chattering in my head.
While I was nothing close to an elite runner, the plain satisfaction of having an avenue to release all the anger and doubts confined within me was enough for me to carry on. I thought that at least this time, I’m running away—not in circles, but
with some purpose.
Those runs in the gym became weekly, and eventually thrice weekly. I started to make time for this newfound hobby, especially on weekends when I tried to run around the city while I clocked in enough miles to improve my pace and to strengthen my endurance.
I’ve always felt a certain kind of peace when there was nothing but the melody of my heartbeat and the forceful sound of my feet on the pavement. At times it would feel mechanical, but each week that I reached a goal I once thought impossible was just pure bliss.
It didn’t matter if I did it alone. For someone who loves the company of others, that realization surprised me. Those runs became my time of comfort, and my chance to understand myself better. There has been no other time in my life when I felt so isolated yet so free. Suddenly, I preferred sunrises more than sunsets, and breakfasts became a treat. I would wake up painfully early just so I could squeeze in a weekday run before work.
I would miss night outs with friends because I had training to do in the morning. I was on a roll.
What makes running all the more enticing is how simple it is: All you need is yourself, a whole lot of perseverance, and of course, some crazy.
But I felt that my amount of crazy exceeded the quantifier “some” when I signed up for a full marathon with only five months of running under my belt. It was an impulsive decision, reckless even, but I knew it was a chance I couldn’t let go.
For six months I trained with a goal: to complete the race not even with a competitive finish time but to end it with a smile.
On the day of the marathon, out of sheer excitement I ran with barely enough sleep. We started at two in the morning—the earliest I was out for a race.
The first half was a breeze, as the thought of having the medal loomed closer. Finally, after months of strict training, the race would be over, I thought.
But by 25 kilometers I was beginning to struggle. Five kilometers later I was crying. I wanted to quit. I knew marathons would be painful, but man, I did not sign up for this! It was unforgiving. All of a sudden, the doubts I had managed to shoo away came back and drowned me midrace. Who told me to do this, anyway? Why did I even think I would finish?
I hope I could say that some outside force started to magically unchain my tightening legs and hips. But like a cliché, this sport has yet again taught me that there is nothing to count on in moments of struggle but the voice inside me pushing me to keep going.
If somebody told me a year before that I would finish a marathon, I would have laughed. I still dare not call myself a runner, for I feel it’s a title exclusive to professionals. Instead, I would call myself better.
A better runner, a better woman, a better friend, a better sister, a better daughter, a better person. The sport molded me into a version of myself I didn’t think I could be—especially when it entailed leaving behind most of the things I was familiar with and what I was comfortable in.
I admit I still find myself in bursts of sadness, but at least this time, I look back on my past hardships with wiser eyes. At least this time, I’m coping with a larger heart. At least this time, I have my running shoes to help me carry on.
Elyssa Lopez, 22, writes for a business feature website.
