I’ve never been a dedicated athlete. A season of tennis, two of lacrosse, and a sprinkling
of beach volleyball, ultimate frisbee, yoga, biking, and a few others sum up my
athletic experience. Quite diverse. Very sporatic. (Similar to the rest of my life, I suppose.)
Although I enjoy the adrenaline rush of scoring a lacrosse goal or slamming an opponent’s frisbee to the ground, I usually play sports for the social component.
Thus, when my sister-in-law suggested that our whole family run a half-marathon, I thought, you’re insane. Why would anyone spend countless hours on an athletic endeavor with no inherent social interaction and no required hand-eye coordination? But, I like my sister-in-law, and I like a challenge (and I figured bragging rights wouldn’t hurt either). So, I agreed.
Surprisingly, training for a half-marathon gave me a new perspective on the Christian life. I’d always heard athletic parallels to the journey of a Christian (Phil. 2:16; 1 Cor. 10:24-27; 2 Tim. 2:5), but I didn’t really understand. (Similarly, I often miss the significance of the agrarian biblical metaphors since I’m not a farmer. Maybe that will be next on my bucket list...)
With that long introduction, here begins the story...
The half-marathon would take place in St. Louis on April 15, 2012. Thus, I began training in January. My initial 3-mile runs (“jogs,” that is) were completed with much difficulty. Not only was it physically challenging for my legs to keep running and my lungs to keep breathing for three whole miles, but it was also my mental limit. 3 miles = 27 laps around Wheaton’s indoor track. 27 laps = forever. I had lost my iPod over Christmas, so it was just me and the track. Around. And around. And around. Ad nauseum. I tried to pray, attempted memorizing Scripture... but my mental ability seemed inversely related with my physical movements. It took most of my willpower simply to put one foot in front of the other.
Yet, slowly but surely, my jogs continued, and my mileage grew. I can’t say it became easier because each week presented a new challenge of increasing mileage. Nor can I say that I was steadfast in my training. I took a two-week hiatus, partially due to a brief illness and partially due to my own laziness/apathy. Needless to say, it was harder to jump back into my training after a significant absence.
As a general trend though, I noticed progress. I was amazed one day at how naturally my body ran three miles. What was formerly my mental and physical limit now came quite easily, almost effortlessly.
Encouragement played a significant role in my training, too. Back in St. Louis, almost my entire family was training. Although I couldn’t physically run with them, we ran together in solidarity. We put one foot in front of the other, headed toward the same goal. I also gleaned from the wisdom of more experienced runners: how to stretch well and improve my running form, what to eat and drink, and how to care for my body. Others were eager to answer my naive questions and pass along advice.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, people ran alongside of me. Several of my friends, who were much faster runners, slowed their pace to keep me company. Though I usually jogged shorter mileage on my own, I loved the added encouragement of someone else’s presence right next to me on my weekly longer runs, both of us putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes we talked; sometimes we listened to separate soundtracks on our respective iPods (my generous roommate often lent me her iPod for my longer runs); sometimes we ran in silence. But it was enough to know that someone was right there with me.
As January melted into February, then into March, and finally April, my mind continued to fixate on one goal: complete 13.1 miles before the half-marathon course closes and St. Louis streets reopen for traffic. I wasn’t too concerned with my time: less than three hours sounded reasonable. My training (and racing) philosophy was to complete the mileage and avoid injury.
On April 15, with a few butterflies jittering in my stomach and the palpable excitement of 15,000 fellow runners, I started jogging. I ran with my sister-in-law’s sister (Trisha’s sister Sarah). She helped me keep a steady pace, not becoming overzealous in the fervor of the race. We ran consistently, walking only at the water breaks every couple miles.
The race itself seemed to embody many themes of my training: one foot after the other with small encouragements along the way.
My older brother cheered for us at miles 2 and 4. At mile 7 on a long uphill stretch (who knew St. Louis had hills?), we saw my parents and baby foster brother Adrien, who gave me a high-five. By mile 8, my body was tired, but we were soon given “goo” packets for extra fuel. My sister-in-law’s family cheered us on at mile 10, and the sugar rush from the “goo” kicked in. I told my running buddy Sarah that I’d meet her at the finish line, and I took off.
As others slowed down and began to look exhausted, stride after stride propelled me forward. I felt like those “who wait for the Lord [and] renew their strength; [who] mount up with wings like eagles; [who] run and [are not] weary” (Isaiah 40:31).
Before I get too hasty in my application, let’s not forget the previous verse: “even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men stumble exhausted.” At mile 12, my sugar high had crashed. I’m not sure who designs these half-marathon courses, but some guilty party put the last mile on a hill. Other runners slowed to a walk.
I, too, was physically and mentally exhausted.
I started to replay the last few months of training in my mind. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Don’t stop. Not terribly profound thoughts, but enough to keep me going. As I drew closer, everything within me begged to walk for the last few hundred yards. Then I heard a familiar voice yell, “Go, Christy!”
I recognized my mom in the crowd, then heard my brother and sister-in-law cheering next to her. Somehow, my feet picked up speed and started sprinting towards the end. I envisioned my roommate Ryn, who, at the end of one of our long runs, had proudly broadcasted my finish to any tree or bird that cared to listen. That
image and the distance cheers of my family carried me across the actual finish line.
Completed the mileage. No injuries. In significantly less than three hours (2:33:24). Mission accomplished.
Although I’m not currently planning my next half-marathon, nor have I become a die-hard runner, I continue to learn about perseverance/faithfulness (one foot in front of the other toward the goal) and encouragement (from friends, mentors, the local and global church, and God himself).
Hebrews 12. Sums it up much better than I can. Read it. (It’s also where I found this blog title.)
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