Step step breath ...

I was running circles in Greece, on a red-rubber track overlooking the Aegean, when I had an epiphany.

It was early afternoon and a group of adolescent boys were finishing soccer practice. They were tumbling around the infield, a large expanse of fake, plastic grass, while their parents watched from the sidelines. Self-conscience of their gaze, I concentrated on my breathing. It could have been an August morning in Minnesota or I could have been twenty minutes from home, not twenty hours by plane. The freedom of movement feels the same no matter where I run. My legs were born to cantor down muddy trails and side streets, around foreign tracks and noisy cities. It completes me

Back on the foreign track near the end of my first mile, a sugary voice enters my head, “you could just quit.”

I quicken my pace in defiance. Laughter from the infield makes me smile. I woke up this morning to run two miles and I won’t quit halfway. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve only been running twenty minutes. In high school, I ran for hours counting miles on both hands. I can run another mile. Really. The voice is quiet for the next 400 meters, then she stands up arms akimbo and asks permissively, “why?”

Step, step, breath in, step, step, breath out. Well, it started in seventh grade.

The high school cross-country team was recruiting, and I joined out of curiosity and boredom. My only running experience before that had been the sixth-grade track and field day, where I ran the 800 meter race and beat out Cynthia Anderson-Bauer for a yellow seventh-place ribbon. I still have it pinned to my bulletin board at home.

I showed up the first day of practice in August with jean shorts and heavy shoes, panted a mile around the track, stretched and went home. By the end of October I was wearing nylon shorts, using special racing shoes, and bemoaning the evil of carbonated beverages. I made friends that autumn who I’d run with throughout high school, older boys with muscular legs and glamorous smiles, varsity girls who didn’t know they were role-models. I admired their talent and poise. The pride they carried in their eyes was contagious. When I grew up, I wanted to be everything they were.

The cross-country team became my family. We ran together for miles in the snow; the pouring rain; under the burning sun. Some days we ran wordlessly, others we ran talking and laughing. We prayed before each race and cried out from pain and joy crossing the finish line. Throughout the experience I had somebody who kept pushing me forward. Her name was Rachel.

Barely five-feet tall and a year younger than myself, Rachel was my closet friend and teammate. We joined cross-country the same year and quickly became friends. She was always charismatic and I admired her positive attitude towards life. Over the years we spent many long runs together lost in deep conversation. Our only difference was talent. Rachel was born with winged-shoes and a dedicated soul. When she stepped onto the track her feet flew. She pushed harder and ran longer than anybody else on the team. When I wanted to quit her example kept me going. She would always tell me “patience and dedication are more important than any time on a stopwatch.” I’ve never forgotten.

Running transformed me from an awkward freckle-faced girl into a semi-confident teenager. The mental reward of finishing eight-mile runs and completing 400 meter sprint workouts overflowed into other aspects of my life. I started speaking up in class and became more goal-orientated. The routine of daily workouts helped keep my day structured. During cross-country season my grade point average was always higher. In the winter months I felt unaccomplished if I didn’t run regularly. My mind needed a challenge to keep focused. In the fall, that challenge was to constantly push myself harder in practice. The problem I faced, was that no matter how hard I ran, I just wasn’t the fastest. I struggled with excuses for my average performance. My legs are too short. My real calling was to be a tennis player. Capricorns are poor runners anyway. Finally settling down to the face that I’m a mediocre runners in a world hell-bent on perfection, where nobody is perfect.

I will never equal those legendary runners like Rachel. I’m talking about the stallions born wearing stopwatches and running shoes, ready to conquer road races with mule-stubborn pride. The ones who spend years toning their muscles to perfection and steeling their minds against pain. They come from an elite school of champions. I’ve watched them race. At the starting line you can see their restless faces preparing to undertake the ritual of competition. When the gun goes off they dig into the earth and gloss across the course without a backwards glance.

Meanwhile, plodders like myself fight to keep up, splashing through mud and climbing up hills, huffing and wheezing without dignity. When the finish line appears around the crest of a hill, out motors start churning faster and the cheering crowd lifts our spirits. The emotion that spreads down our spine crossing the finish line is euphoric. The thrill of finishing a race is as spiritual. When the race is over we throw our heads back and laugh. We remain mediocre runners, but we’re runners nonetheless. Nobody can take that away from us. We may not gallop as fast as everybody else, but we run for the same hopeless reasons. To celebrate the power of our bodies. To challenge our spirits. To chase down the fears that say we’re attempting the impossible. To silence the voices that say the ability isn’t within us to win. We keep running anyway.

I ran cross-country for six years, saw teammates and coaches come and go, saw myself change and envied Rachel for her speed, but never took for granted her advice or encouragement. I know it doesn’t take pure natural talent to achieve greatness, but I’m content to remain average. For a long time I feared my inability to be the strongest member of the team meant I was underachieving. Today, I recognize the mental reward I gained from not quitting, especially when the finish line was painfully far away. It goes beyond running.

I’m currently in a long distance relationship with a boy named John. We haven’t seen each other since August, but I’ve learned the reward that comes from waiting. When I grow discouraged by the distance, I take another step and remember the finish line. Another step and I remember Rachel. Another step and I’m running for myself towards the future. I want to be a poet, a mother, a gardener, an activist and an individual. These things take time.

But first thing first, I need to finish what I started. The soccer field is empty. Everyone has gone home. I surge forward. Only 1600 meter to go and then I’ll head home too. Down the road, across the ocean, somewhere into the future taking my oh, sweet time. When the future overwhelms I struggle, I pray, I stumble, I step, step, breath, over and over again until the fear passes and I can move forward again. At my own pace. I run.