I’m just out for a morning run.
Those six words rolled through my mind like a ticker on a marquee. Each time my shies hit the pavement, I thought of them.
The absurdity wasn’t lost on me. All I had to do was look down at the number pinned to my shirt, or glance at the spectators on the sidewalk to know that this was no normal morning run.
It was a race. A half marathon, specifically.
I’d never run one of these before. And the unknown filled me with anxiety.
I worried that I’d run out of steam somewhere on the course. That I wouldn’t cross the finish line. That I’d make a fool of myself.
So, I let my mantra be my guide. I treated the race like it was a casual training run – one of the many I’d completed leading up to this moment. And I kept myself from getting overzealous.
The strategy seemed to work. As the chilly morning air hit my skin, I took stride after stride with little resistance. It felt as if I was floating on air.
In reality, I was running hard. And I was passing dozens of other runners on the course.
I started to catch onto this around the Mile 3 marker. So, I instinctively glanced at my watch.
The pace it showed astounded me.
There’s no way I can hold this for 10 more miles, I told myself.
But everything still felt so effortless. So, I resolved to try.
With each mile, my confidence grew. I’d entered the starting corral with a goal to complete this race in 1 hour and 40 minutes. But now, I was on pace to finish in under 1:30:00.
As I passed the Mile 12 marker, the digital clock read 1:22:42. A 90-minute finish was within reach, if I could hold on for another 1.1 miles.
I was giddy with excitement. And totally unprepared for what was to come.
I was about 500 feet past the Mile 12 marker when I first felt it.
A sharp, stabbing pain just below the side of my ribcage.
The air rushed out of my lungs in an instant. And as I inhaled, my right oblique tightened like a vice.
I knew exactly what this was. A side stitch.
The side stitch is the bane of any runner’s existence. I’d encountered my fair share when I’d first started running regularly. But they’d faded away as I’d gained fitness. I hadn’t encountered one in months.
But now it was back – at the worst possible time.
The easiest way to resolve a side stitch is to stop for a moment and stretch. I’d done this plenty of times in those early days of training.
But stopping wasn’t an option at mile 12 of the half marathon course. Not if I wanted to break the 1:30:00 barrier.
So, while still in motion, I gave myself a pep talk through strained breaths.
The only way to it is through it. Let’s go.
I winced as the course turned left, and then right. Each step felt excruciating. And I knew it would only get worse.
I was downtown now, running in the cavernous shadows of giant skyscrapers. The morning sun was in my eyes, blinding me through my racing sunglasses.
I had no idea how much of the course was still ahead of me. A half mile? A quarter mile?
As I scanned in vain for a street sign or a mile marker, I noticed some silhouettes darting through my peripherals. Other runners, passing me by.
I started to panic. Was I fading? Was my race coming undone?
Just hang on, I told myself. You’re almost there.
I passed the Mile 13 marker. And after what felt like an eternity, the finish line came into view.
I glided my way across the line and slowed to a walk. As I hobbled over to a barrier fence to stretch my oblique, I took a look around. Those silhouettes that had just passed me were hunched over, vomiting profusely.
I stared up at the race clock, and suddenly everything made sense.
I hadn’t faded. Those runners had just outsprinted me. All so that they could finish before the clock hit 1:30:00.
I’d missed that mark by 4 seconds. But I’d also persevered, fighting through immense pain and giving myself a chance at glory.
No matter what the clock read, I could hold my head high.
Back when I was a child, my father came back from work one day looking ragged.
Grass stains were all over his jeans, and dirt specks covered his shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.
My mother asked what happened, and my father – then an elementary school teacher – explained that it had been Field Day.
Field day, of course, is a late spring ritual in schools across the country. A day when students and teachers ditch the classroom for structured activities outdoors.
One of the activities at my father’s school was a gauntlet run. Teachers got low to the ground and ran across the grass. And as they did, students lined up on both sides would whack at them with sticks.
It was an absurd annual tradition. But there was no avoiding it.
If my father wanted to maintain the respect of his students, he was going to have to make his way across the grass – dirt stains and stick whacks and all.
The only way to it was through it.
So, my father obliged. And he wore the evidence home for his family to see.
That image has stuck with me over the years.
My father’s decision, you see, ran counter to one of the great ironies of our society. That despite our bluster about grit and toughness, we tend to detour around challenges at every opportunity. To take the path of least resistance.
Calloused hands and battle scars are yesterday’s news. We’ve found a path to glory that doesn’t involve the spilling of guts. And we’ve turned it into a six-lane highway.
Gain without pain. It’s the ultimate life hack.
Or maybe not.
No, Easy Street might not be the panacea we portray it as. Accomplishments ring hollow when they’re dislodged from the principles of perseverance and sacrifice. We know only what we’ve gotten, not what it took.
If that last mile of my half marathon had felt the same as that first dozen, I’d be in the same boat as everyone else. The finisher’s medal around my neck would have been little more than an accessory. A reward barely earned.
But that last mile proved to be its own gauntlet. One that I faced head on, just like my father before me.
And because of that, the medal will always mean more.
The only way to it is through it.
I believe those words with all my heart. And for that, I am grateful.