Running the rocky road

I was fat. Let us not be coy, no deploying euphenisms of mass distraction. I am not now or have I ever been big boned. I wasn’t carrying a few extra pounds. And I hadn’t, as my Nan in her very proper British way uttered, just filled out. I was fat. And now 30 months later, if all goes as scheduled, I’ll run the Boston Marathon.

This is not the tale of a ‘natural’ who just picked up something and excelled. I am not that guy. We all know someone who strides to the tee box declaring he’s not very good and drives it 220 yards straight as an arrow; or who can drop threes from all over the court; or, hell, even nails a triple 20 on the dart board for fun. That’s not me.

Think more Mr. Average. Not picked first, not picked last. Can catch most things thrown at him, moves faster than people think is possible with a belly that big and likely won’t embarrass himself by trying to do too much. Know your limitations and play within them isn’t just for lotto players.

And to be clear there was never some master plan that was obeyed with slavish adherence; I have just run into a lot of highs, lows and ugly moments on the road without any roadmap. With some guidance along the way, I’ve stumbled along and think my story can be a shared one, that others can achieve the same satisfaction from achieving own goals.

So how did it start? Red-faced embarrassment. The realization that after an enjoyable trek down the Oregon coast that the suit didn’t fit. Now, clothes are important and suits are a necessary part of the job; fitting right is also important and the need to wear the three piece so the vest would hide the undone pants (held up with stretched belt) is not very correct.

Part of the problem was there was just enough latent ability left that I could get away playing slo-pitch or thirds rugby or running TC10K – could fool myself into thinking that at any moment it was possible to spring up off the couch and endure some kind of athletic endeavour. Then ache and ache for the next three days.

Serious effort was required. Sustained activity. And due to shame and dislike of gyms it would be a solitary experience. Running was a distant memory, recall of high school races came back and that was the route ultimately followed.

But heading out the first time can be difficult. The weight of expectations is enormous, especially as the scales that morning tipped somewhere around 240 pounds. It was a lot like watching a baby rhino stagger down Dallas Road, except the rhino possesses more grace.

The worst is the mental anguish self-imposed: people are looking at me, folks are laughing at me, scenes from Run Fat Boy Run pass through your mind. The sweat is pouring off, even in the cool fall weather. Everything aches and it seems pointless, the effort required far out of reach.

Bullshit.

In later posts, how to take those first steps will be covered but for now the point is taking it. And then a couple of days later repeating it. Then again. Reoccurring so much it becomes habit; you feel slighted when you don’t exercise is the objective.

That’s what all runners share – that addiction to getting out, regardless of the weather or other distractions, and having that time. It’s not about speed. It’s not about distance. It’s about finishing what you started.

Please, don’t get hung up on some specious definition of what a runner is. Are marathoners runners? Of course. And so are people doing 5ks and 10ks or park runs or circling the track. A runner is someone who puts one foot in front of the other with a little bit of pace. A mile is a mile, no matter how long has elapsed.

This is about my journey but it is a path that anyone can travel. The specifics may alter from scene to scene, but the ambition and hope and accomplishments don’t. This is about people seeing anyone can get on the road and letting it take them wherever they want to go.

Hope to run into you next week.