Where is the Reason to this Madness?
An update on my half-marathon life
An update on my half-marathon life
It had made me anxious all day. It was Thursday, and while Thursday provided its normal craziness of five classes in one day and of trying to stay awake and alert during my Doctrine and Covenants class, it also, in this last month, has offered me an even more fabulous gift - 900 East.
As you all may recall from reading about my first day as a half-marathon runner, I have begun training. And I must confess, the movies definitely make it look easier than it is. They are totally acting in those running scenes in Central Park. I can sense the camera crew member waiting off camera with his bottle of Evian water and a fan (and maybe a bowl of grapes.) This is the real world people! And so since that first monumental beginning of this ever so important chapter in my life, I have ran every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Monday we take on south of Campus in a loop drawn out by Google Maps himself. On Wednesdays we hit the metropolitan city center of Provo, passing the only bar within city limits and the one black guy, and on Thursdays, I take on, face to face, my worst enemy. For those who have visited Provo, you might remember this street best as the sight of the BYU Creamery. This would, then, produce warm and fuzzy memories of death by butterfat. Trust me, I would much rather die that way than the near death experience I have once a week. Let me elaborate so that you can take this prisoner of war death march with me. Go with me to this last Thursday.
I begin at my house, a normal, even expected place to begin a run. Nothing too dangerous or risky. Yet. I start to jog, these days at a relatively decent pace - some may even see me and think I'm running. It must be the headband. I wear it for that effect. The run starts out great. I feel strong. I can feel the stretching in my thighs and calves and I swear I can feel them growing muscle with each stride. I push the button to cross the street, taking great satisfaction in the fact that I didn't even need the excuse of the crosswalk to breath, like I normally do. The white walk signal flashes before me and I glide across the street with ease. I continue in my runner's bliss for the next three blocks. And this, my friends, is where my vacation ends. As I take a left turn, my life literally takes a turn for the worst. Welcome to 900 East. You won't enjoy your stay.
900 East is a hill. I am not talking about a hill with dips and points of mercy. No. 900 East shows no weakness or pain. It knows no mercy. It bleeds ruthlessness. And it dares me to take it on. Having no choice but to challenge it, I turn on my iPod and begin climbing Everest. Immediately my muscles tighten, but I cringe, knowing it's not because they're getting bigger, but because they're threatening to turn to mush at any moment. I keep pushing. Jock Jams comes on the playlist and I feel a surge of confidence. "Are you ready for this?" I pass the creamery, barely breathing, and I see the people inside enjoying their ice-cream, throwing their heads back in laughter and carelessness. I'm like Peter Pan looking in on Wendy and the others, shut out in the cold from the warmness and happiness. But like Pan the Man, I have a mission. And though it may not be a man with a hook as his arm, it does have many lost boys: The MTC. The Missionary Training Center is my goal, my golden destination, my never-never land. I whip my head from the creamery window and refocus my efforts. My strides become more determined and I continue the ascent, the wind whipping around me and the rain batting my already sweat-drenched face. The drops mix with my own wetness and snot drips into my mouth. Everything just blurs together. But I hardly notice. I can see the lights of the temple, and I know my finish is closing in. I turn up the iPod and push.
I feel like I'm going to throw up now. All of the sudden I want more than anything to turn around and join the strangers at the Creamery. Their life looked so rosy and and grand -- so easy. A voice inside tells me that I can. What's making me run this crazy mountain anyway? I'm not getting a grade on it or getting paid by the hour. Where is the reason to this madness?? But then I spot the MTC flags, and my mind rushes back to my time within the MTC gates. Were those two months of mass-produced, gas-producing food, breaking out in hives, having to make a top-bunk bed every morning that I had nicknamed Satan -- was two months of that easy? I don't think so. I pushed through it. I ate that food. I taught those lessons in Spanish even when my skin was blotchy and made me look like I was dying of some highly infectious form of a tropical Amazon virus. And I tackled that bed every morning at 6:30 in the morning. And you know what? I won. And if I can do that, by golly, I can make it to the stop light.
Holding the puke inside of me and repressing every urge in my exhausted and defeated body to stop and fall to the ground in a pile of mush, I press forward, determined to endure to the end. This one's for Satan (my bed), I think with a slight, crooked (somewhat senile) grin. In just 15 more feet I find myself at the top of the mountain, stop and put my hands on my knees, trying to tap into some remote part of the human respiratory system. Beads of sweat fall off my face in sync with the pouring down rain. Through blurry eyes, blurred both from the weather and from the lack of oxygen to the brain, I look around me, wanting to be assured that I had not died and gone to Heaven, but that I was still in Provo. I spot a woman carrying a casserole dish wearing high heals, headed toward the nearby stake building. Yep. Still here. With heavy limbs but a happy heart, I begin a slow walk back down 900 East. No one had been there with finish line tape or a big bouquet of flowers to congratulate me. The casserole lady barely awarded me a glance. But you know what? That was okay! Next week, however, I will need a mariachi band rooting me on. I can kill Hook once, but seriously. Twice?? Stay tuned for my obituary.
