And it hated me.

An inauspicious beginning

When I was 7, my family moved from our house in the city to a big house out in the suburbs (Newtown, PA). There was plenty of space to run and play; any kid’s dream. I remember attending the local public school, and while Newtown isn’t exactly Dillon, TX, I was struck by how much more people cared about sports there. Every kid was enrolled in several after school sports, and every recess involved either a soccer or basketball game. Coming from a small, intellectual Quaker school where one of my favorite parts of the school day was “silent reflection time”, I had a lot to learn.

One of the most “important” parts of the year was the Presidential Fitness Test in PE. I don’t remember all the individual tests, or my scores, but I do remember the running portion of the test being the hardest. One year, when I was 9 or 10, I remember being determined to finish in a place other than dead last, so I set out trying to keep pace with the other students. After a few minutes the usual burning in my chest became so bad I started to cry. After a few more minutes, I lost the other kids. Even as the gym teacher yelled at me to keep moving, I slowed to a trot, then a walk, then I just laid down on the ground. I don’t remember much after that, but eventually I was back in the classroom, slumped in a chair as the teacher informed me that (once again) I had failed the Fitness Test.

The coveted award.

The Presidential Fitness Test (and by extension, running in general) became the bane of my existence. As an overachieving elementary schooler, I finished every quarter with Academic Honors and awards to spare. But once a year, I would sit as still as a statue, my eyes boring holes into the ground as I held back tears because I hated watching every other student in the class being called up to the front to receive their Presidential Fitness Test awards. I hated the fact that everyone else would go home that day with a certificate signed by the President (actually a stamp of Bill Clinton’s signature but, hey, we were 10) proclaiming them to be fit, healthy kids that make their country proud.

As I got older, I came to enjoy participating in sports, but I always avoided running wherever I could. I started off treating running like some sort of allergy; like a lactose-intolerant person deftly sidestepping dairy products, I would find ways to minimize the running involved in any activity. In middle school I managed to play soccer without running (by playing goalkeeper) and took up martial arts (Tang Soo Do, which is not particularly running-focused). By high school, I was a lacrosse player (goalie again), and later, I even switched to track and field (nothing over 200m, and javelin). By the time I graduated from high school, I had managed to become a varsity athlete with a terrible secret: I couldn’t run.

The First Foray

College was easier to manage, since suddenly I wasn’t an athlete at all. I just kept my head down and focused on school, friends and fun. Four years and 20 lbs later, I had a Bachelor’s in Computer Science, and an internship in California before I started my Master’s. I should have felt great, but I felt awful. Something about being in a new environment made me stop and take a good look at myself in a way I hadn’t done in years, and I didn’t like what I saw.

Me at my heaviest/most out of shape, summer 2011.

Someone recommended the Couch to 5K program and I thanked them for their advice and then promptly ignored it. A few weeks later, after seeing it mentioned on Reddit and other sites, I decided to try it out so I downloaded the Get Running app. I figured I wouldn’t actually be able to run the full 5K (what is this, the Olympics?) but at least I could lose a little weight by walking and running around the block once in a while.

I was right. By the time I returned from Silicon Valley, I had lost a few pounds but I had totally given up on running and I still couldn’t run 1 mile. Things were back to normal.

Try, try again

A few months later, after breaking up with my boyfriend of 4 years, I had gained all the weight back and was at rock bottom (or what seems like rock bottom to a sheltered college kid). Like many people, I went into my “get over him through self-improvement” phase, so I decided that I was going to start C25K over again, and this time I was going to run the WHOLE. DAMN. THING.

In January 2012, I started going to the gym and walking/running on the treadmill 3 days a week. I signed up for a 5K race in mid-March and kept a little calendar of all the workouts I would do between January and March. I began to think that the race would be the most important event of the year.

About a month into training, I found out that my mother had been diagnosed with kidney cancer. We scheduled a surgery at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center at the end of March. It was, by far, the most important event of the year.

At the finish line of the 5K.

I continued training, but my mind was elsewhere. When the day of the 5K rolled around, I huffed and puffed up and down the Schuylkill River for 33 minutes and 6 seconds, smiled for a picture or two, and went home. Two weeks later, my mom had her surgery. It went well, and I spent a lot of time traveling back and forth from school to Memorial Sloan Kettering, and later, to my parents’ house to assist with the recovery whenever I could. Eventually, things went back to normal.

Third time’s the charm

After graduation, I worked for my own 2-person tech startup, an iPhone/iPad app contracting company. Startup life was exciting; lots of late nights and coffee shop meetings. Finally, we secured a long term project and got to work. We didn’t have an office, so I spent weeks working from home. Most days consisted of waking up and rolling out of bed, coding on the couch, lunch on the couch, more coding, dinner on the couch, some after dinner entertainment (Xbox/TV on the couch), maybe a bit more coding, then bed. I had tossed my running shoes in the corner of my apartment right before my mom’s surgery, and there they had stayed, untouched. I had officially gone from Couch to 5K to Couch.

About a year later, we were struggling to think of our next big app, so we decided to quit while we were ahead. We both got jobs at a larger, more established version of our old company, located in New York. It was great to be away from the couch for a while, but I still wasn’t exactly active or healthy. In fact, partying was one of my coworkers’ main hobbies, and I joined in a bit too enthusiastically (the IOC still hasn’t responded to my letters asking them to consider Beerball for the next Summer Games). I should also mention that I met my boyfriend, Pierre, while working at this company. More on him later.

By early 2014, my life had more or less stabilized. Sure, the pounds had crept back on, through a pizza party here or a happy hour there. But I was living in New York, eating, drinking, hanging out with my friends, and I had just started a new job at Google. Life was good, and I felt truly happy. But as I settled into my new life, one thing started to bother me.

Every day at work, I would climb a few flights of stairs to get some coffee or meals from the café. Now, stairs aren’t easy for anyone, but one day I had to stop and rest after two flights of stairs before continuing on. Reality hit me, hard: I was 24 years old, and so out of shape that I couldn’t climb three floors to get my breakfast. I laughed bitterly to myself that the solution to weight loss had been in front of our noses the whole time: put the food up high enough that people like me get tired before we can reach it.

I mentioned this to Pierre while we were out for a walk, and he said that he wanted to get back into running. He had been a runner in a past life, but he hadn’t done it in a while and was feeling the same way about his current physical condition. We went over to the sporting goods store that day, got him a pair of sneakers, dug mine out of the closet, and that was it. The next day we were “running” again.

Sort of. He was running again, but I was starting C25K for the third time. As I alternated walking and running in the park (once again), I started to think that maybe the reason I could never keep up with running is that I wasn’t aiming high enough. I joked to a few people that I should skip all these “small change” distances like 5K and 10K and just run a marathon! Go big or go home, right?

The next level

In late March 2014, I made that joke for what must have been the fifth time, and finally became curious enough to look at some resources on the New York Marathon, just for laughs. Over the next few days, I found out a few things. I found out that you didn’t have to qualify based on your speed if you ran with a team that raised money for charity. I found out that many of the charities support medical research for various diseases and conditions. I found out that Memorial Sloan Kettering had a team, called Fred’s Team. I found out that money raised for Fred’s Team could go to whatever area of cancer research you wanted, including kidney cancer.

Something clicked in my mind, something that I will never be able to fully explain. Maybe it was a sense of purpose, a lapse in judgement combined with my impulsive nature, or both. But on March 31, 2014, exactly two years after my mom’s surgery, I signed up to run the TCS New York City Marathon with Fred’s Team. I didn’t know it yet, but it was the best decision I ever made.

After I finished posting all the self-congratulatory Facebook statuses, calling home, and cheerfully telling my family and friends, the excitement faded into terror. What was I thinking? I could barely run a mile without passing out, and I had 7 months to figure out how the hell I was going to run a marathon.

I checked out Hal Higdon’s Novice program. After all, I was a Novice, right? Nope. Turns out the Novice program starts off with three 3-mile runs and a 6-mile run in a week. I dropped down to the Novice Supreme program, which is basically the Novice program with 12 weeks of preparation tacked on beforehand. Better, but it still involved being able to run a “long run” of 3 miles during the first weekend.

Surprisingly, I did it. Instead of C25K, I had been using my own “training strategy” a few times a week to get myself back up to 3 miles: run with Pierre until I couldn’t anymore, then turn around and walk home. After a few weeks of that, I was able to run a few miles without stopping. I had successfully trained enough that I could now start the 12-week “super-easy” training program that would get me up to speed for the 18-week “easy” marathon training program. Cool.

The training went pretty well for the next few weeks, with the exception of one incident. After a 4–5 mile long run with Pierre along the East River, I felt the familiar burning pain in my chest that accompanied every run, but this time it was different, more intense. I tried to catch my breath and just couldn’t seem to get enough air. Every breath in became a struggle and every breath out was accompanied by a wheezing noise. As I slumped against a railing, I began to panic. Suddenly, I was 8 years old again, clutching at my chest and throat, tears running down my face as I tried desperately to suck down even a little bit of air. Pierre noticed that something was wrong and doubled back. When he got there, I wanted to scream, shout for help, say something, but all I could do was gasp and point at my chest. He helped me to a park bench and we sat there until I felt well enough to speak again. I wobbled home and laid in bed for the rest of the day.

My doctor told me that I had exercise-induced asthma (something I had suspected for years), and gave me a little yellow inhaler to carry around with me when I ran. The first time I ran after using the inhaler was like flying. I finally understood why other people were able to enjoy running. I’m sure Pierre got sick of it after a few minutes, but I couldn’t stop pointing out that I was running and talking at the same time.

Go Fred’s Team!

I started going to training runs with Fred’s Team after work and on the weekends, and I noticed two things that were always constant. First, everyone was really nice. The coaches and other runners are a great group of people and I began looking forward to our workouts and long runs together. Second, I was one of the slowest people at every run. I’m competitive by nature, so coming in last (even during practice) bothered me a tiny bit.

As the weeks went by, I saw my long runs increase from 5 km to 5 miles, then 10 km, 10 miles, and beyond. I started signing up for races, and before I knew it, I had finished my first half marathon (the Rock ‘n’ Roll Philadelphia Half Marathon with Pierre). Running was fun now, and increasing the distance was a great feeling, but one thing still dogged me: why was I so slow?

Pierre and me, after a 20-mile run from the Upper West Side to Coney Island.

Even as my longest runs started to push past 15 miles, 18 miles, and finally 20 miles, I was still self conscious about my speed (or lack thereof). I became desperate to run fast enough to finish ahead of someone else, so I wouldn’t be last. During long runs, I worried that the Fred’s Team volunteers would tire of waiting, pack up, and leave without me (of course, they never did). I checked race results obsessively, hoping that maybe this time I managed to cross the finish line ahead of just a few more people. I was embarrassed to tell people my finish times.

The same feelings of inadequacy and shame that made me avoid running for so many years crept back into my life, slowly sucking the joy out of my new favorite hobby. Suddenly, I was nervous about practicing with the team, about other runners in the park, anything that might remind me that I was a slow runner, a failure. Every time I finished last during a workout or a run with the team, I felt the same sense of shame that I had first felt all those years ago, as though the coaches were going to haul me up in front of my teammates and announce that I had failed the marathon (of course, they didn’t).

I started trying to use negativity to motivate myself, berating myself after what I considered to be a sub-par workout (which was most of them). I thought that if I could just learn to harness the anger, fear, and shame, I would go blasting out of the starting gate like a rocket on race day. Nobody would be able to stop me; I would probably run the marathon in under 5 hours because of my grit and determination.

Marathon Sunday

On November 2nd, 2014, I put on my gear and boarded the bus to Staten Island. I had just gotten over a nasty cold and was still coughing once in a while, but otherwise, I felt good. I was ready to run 4:59. Over the past few weeks, I had gotten angry at myself enough that I knew I would be able to use it as fuel when I started running.

Since I was running in the fourth wave, I ended up sitting outside under a tent for a few hours. In case you haven’t heard, it was cold and windy. The long wait in the cold took something out of me, and by the time I started running, I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.

I won’t give a full race report here, but the start of the race was rough. The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was bordering on treacherous. At one point, another runner fell into me, pushed by the wind. After the bridge, things settled down and I began to enjoy the race. I saw Pierre a few times during the first half, and he helped to keep me focused and energized through Brooklyn and Queens.

About 15 miles in, I left the last of the crowds in Queens and started the long trek across the 59th St. Bridge. There are no spectators allowed on the bridge, and most runners weren’t particularly chatty after 15 miles, so the bridge was virtually silent. I suddenly had time to “stop” and think about the race. Glancing down at my watch, I noticed my pace was way too slow to finish in 4:59. In retrospect, the 25 mph headwinds were at least partly to blame, but at the time I figured it was all my fault. At this point, I had two choices: try to run the next 11 miles faster than ever before, or keep going at the current pace and get there when I get there.

I weighed my options. A “slow” marathon finish time had become one of my biggest fears. What would my friends and family think? What about my coaches and teammates who had worked so hard to help me get to the race? I glanced around at the other runners, hoping they would somehow help me choose, but all I heard was silence, punctuated by the sounds of hundreds of feet shuffling along the pavement. My head was spinning, and the 4:59 loomed large in my mind. This was it. The moment where I would either rally and unleash all those negative feelings as a miraculous burst of speed, or finally accept the harsh reality of being a “slow” runner. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and made my choice.

I finished my first marathon in 5:46. Something happened on the bridge at mile 15. I realized that life is not at all like the movies, and that torturing yourself with insecurities and doubts for a few months does not magically make you do your very best on race day. The question on the bridge was never “should I try for my goal time or just accept being a failure?”. The real question was whether I wanted to enjoy the race or suffer through it. I chose to enjoy it, and I’m glad I did.

The Finish Line

Pierre rode his bike around and caught up with me around mile 22, and I saw my brother and my dad around 23 miles in. My mom, temporarily sidelined by a back injury, cheered me on from afar and was waiting to greet me as soon as I got back to the hotel. Even though my time was definitely past 5 hours, they didn’t look disappointed at all. In fact, Pierre rode alongside the course as long as he could so he could keep cheering. The end of the race was a blur, but I remember hitting mile 26 and breaking into a smile, then laughter. My legs were dead; I could barely control them, but I sprinted the last 400 m cackling like the Joker.

The finish line!

As I approached the finish line, I felt something welling up inside me. This time it wasn’t shame or embarrassment, it was pride. For the first time in a long while, I was proud of myself. I crossed the finish line with my hands up, grinning from ear to ear, and breathless. I didn’t even look at the time. A volunteer directed me to the medal area and as someone placed one around my neck, I burst into tears. Finally, I was free from the fear and doubt that had come bundled with running for so many years. My “terrible secret” had vanished and had been replaced with a new “secret”: now that I was able to run, I had grown to love it.

Epilogue

I used to hate running because I thought I would never be able to do it. Whenever I ran before, I felt like I was briefly transformed back into the skinny, bookish kid that I used to be. I ran with fear, shame and doubt hanging over my head. Now whenever I run, I feel like the marathoner that I have become. I run with friends (Pierre and Fred’s Team), I run with purpose, and most importantly, I run with pride.