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Lace 'em up and hit the road

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When it comes to running, I am something of a hack.
I don't own a pair of proper running shoes or sweat-wicking apparel. I don't monitor my heart rate or measure split times. I don't know whether I underpronate, overpronate or pronate at all. I just lace'em up, crank the tunes and hit the road. That's enough for me.
At least it was until this year.
If the Chinese can declare this year the "The Year of the Rat," I'm calling it "The Year of the Rat Race," the year that I decided to take my running routine to a new level.
On June 13th, I participated in the ProActive for Life 5K, my first ever 5K. The run/walk took place in downtown Frankfort and was designed for inexperienced runners like myself " although I've been running regularly for a good two years. One hundred and twenty-four of the 341 participants who crossed the finish line had never participated in a 5K before. That's an impressive group of newcomers, and I wanted to show them the way.
Just two months before, I had completed my first mini-marathon, 13.1 miles of self-doubt and that line from "The Little Engine That Could." A 5,000-meter run would be a walk in the park, right?
Not so fast.
Compared to a mini-marathon, a 5K is a sprint, and I'd always identified more with the tortoise than the hare. My goal was 3.1 miles in less than 22 minutes, a time I thought would be attainable if I did my best gazelle-in-the-lion's-den impression. As I stood at the start line, I could only speculate as to whether I had it in me.
The buzzer sounds. I take my first step as I start the timer on my wristwatch. Zero. One. Two. Here we go. Can't get out of this assignment now. I find my pace as a dozen or so runners sprint ahead down Main Street. My only competition is wrapped around my left wrist.
I honestly never intended to take up the hobby. As a kid, I never enjoyed running. It was boring, like studying for a geology test that gave you pit stains, and what's childhood if not a constant search for diversion? The worst day in gym class was the day everyone had to run 20 minutes straight around the track. I thought my seventh grade PE teacher wanted to finish me off before I ever made it to high school.
Growing up, I loved to play sports where running was a means to an end " a reception, a basket, a steal. It was never more than a by-product of sport, and I absolutely loathed those hot August days of conditioning during my high school years in Indiana in preparation for the fall tennis season. How was sprinting until my legs caught fire supposed to help my forehand?
Settling into a groove, I cruise down Broadway. I cruise over the Capital Avenue Bridge. I even make a little cheering gesture to one of the supporters along the road. I feel good. I am right on target.
My attitude toward running shifted gradually at first. Then, all at once.
Pickup games became few and far between during college, and I found myself searching for something to stay active. I tried rollerblading, cycling, swimming, anything but running. It just wasn't me. I finally gave it a shot one summer when I found myself living at home, working at a job I despised, frustrated and confined. It clicked. Running became my existential outlet " a test of my mind, body and soul that nothing else in my life at that particular time could give me.
I planned a four-mile loop and chipped away at it for weeks, jogging as far as my body could carry me before giving in and walking the rest of the way. I ran the entire loop one Friday evening four weeks after my first attempt. I even had enough energy left over to raise my arms in triumph in the driveway and do a little dance. It was a goal I had set and accomplished all by myself.
As I approach the inclining road that wraps around the Capitol, my outlook on life isn't quite so rosy. The first signs of fatigue set in as my watch creeps toward the 10-minute mark. I am only halfway through! I hug the edges of the road as much as I can, trying to shave millimeters off the remaining distance. Onward and upward I go.
I didn't stick with running once I returned to college, but my attitude was vastly different. It didn't seem quite as peculiar or alien as before. I gave it a second dance during my six months studying abroad in Sao Paulo, Brazil, a sprawling megalopolis that looked nothing like the quiet Indiana towns of which I was accustomed. I think I stared out the window of the high-rise apartment complex I was living in for a week before I ventured anywhere alone.
Everything was different and exciting " the language, the people, the urban lifestyle " but feelings of displacement and isolation were nearly inevitable. Once again, I found myself turning to running to grant me stability, help me feel part of my surroundings.
I started running a bike trail that divided four lanes of heavy traffic in my neighborhood. I can still picture the route in my head today. Tropical plants line the paved trail, the pavement juts up at odd angles, a metro station looms overhead. It became a familiar space in an urban jungle " like a trustworthy friend.
To finish my route, I high-stepped 154 white cement steps to the top of the hill where I lived. I counted each one as I climbed. It was like running to heaven. My calves burned in protest with each step, and when I reached the top, I put my hands on head and looked back down at my conquered territory. I had never felt so American.
The gradual descent on the way back from the Capitol gives me a chance to catch my breath. This is more difficult than I anticipated. My legs are not conditioned for this pace. Thoughts of walking the rest of the way start interjecting themselves, but I try not to listen, concentrating on the next object in the distance. The traffic light! Run to the traffic light!
Now, a week seldom goes by where I don't sneak in a run. It's become something deeply personal to me, a spiritual cleansing where all of life's worries melt away and the only pressing question is whether to take the next step. Ninety degrees. Nine degrees. Rain. Snow. Wind. It's become a healthy itch that must be scratched regardless of the season.
Where's the finish line? Is that the finish line? I'm not really sure. I make it back to Main St., but there's no finish line in sight. @!&#$%! I give myself a Kobe Bryant pep talk and press on.
There's always that anxiousness, that fear of the unknown when trying something new and demanding like running for the first time. Questions swirl: What if I don't like it? What if I hit a mental or physical wall? What if I fail to accomplish my goal?
The hardest step to take is the first one. It certainly was for me. Each successive step, however, is less burdensome than the one before " until you can hardly remember a time when you weren't in motion.
I see it! A group of people in the distance, a parting in the middle, the promised line! I sprint to the finish. Twenty-one minutes, fifty-four seconds. Six seconds to spare. Hands on head, slightly dizzy, I suck wind like a fish on dry land. The aching pain in my body gives way to inner satisfaction.