Leap of Faith

Today, I ran my last long run before the taper: 20 miles. That's pretty far, and yet race day requires another 6.2 miles. You never run more than 20 miles in most marathon programs. You just have to hope that you can run the extra 10K on race day. For those of you who have run a 10K, you know that it is nothing to sneeze at. So when you put your toes on the start line of the marathon, you’re taking a leap of faith.

In addition to the problem of not running the full distance before the big day, anything can go wrong. Shin splints can take you out at mile 7. A cramp at mile 10. Achilles tendonitis at mile 16. Hitting the wall at 17. The body is a fickle thing that can break down or trip up at any point. So much is out of your control, left to the fates or luck or karma or God.

The problem with knowing your body's limitations is that it can choke you up. Why take even one step if your body might give out halfway through? During every long run (every run, really), I reach a point where I want to stop. Surprisingly, this point often comes not when I'm in severe pain, but when I begin to question what my body--what I--can do. I worry that I won't be able to finish mile 20 if I'm sore at mile 5, or, even more foolishly, I begin to believe that if I might not make my goal pace, I shouldn't run at all. Instead of focusing on what I can do and what I might be able to do, I fret, I worry, I shut down. Usually, it's not the running itself that is the problem, even at mile 18 or 19; it's my mind, my attitude.

I wish I could offer a quick and easy fix for such mental roadblocks, but I don't have one. What keeps me running during these "What if?" moments is, well, the running itself. One foot in front of the other. I can only prove my doubting heart wrong by making my body work, by running when I worry that I can't keep running, which gives me faith that I can meet my goals. When I line up at the start line on race day, I know that I have to have faith in my training and in my body; in the words of another doubter, "the readiness is all." I know that I have to leave the rest of the business up to the luck of race day. If I'm going to get hurt, I'm going to get hurt. If I'm going to hit the wall at mile 17, I'm going to hit the wall. I'll just have to deal with it when it happens, instead of wasting precious energy worrying about what might happen. I know it's easier said than done, but it's the only way for me to move forward when I'm in pain or afraid I might fail.

If you're noticing a pattern in these blogs, you might guess what's about to come next. This is the point in the post where I show how important my mom's influence has been in my life. As you might imagine, I learned this coping mechanism from my mom. Just as she has pity parties, she sometimes lets her fears about future physical damage and suffering interfere with her generally positive attitude. But what is truly remarkable is her ability to live in the now, to face each moment as a moment. This perspective gives her control over her disease, rather than the other way around. She knows that each moment of our lives is a leap of faith. We never know what lurks around the corner; we never know what obstacle will leap into our paths--or which ones we will put there ourselves. So what else is there to do but to fully be in the moment? (And, yes, I just split an infinitive and went all zen in one sentence--it was worth it).

There have been times--recently--that she woke up unable to move, paralyzed by the disease. Of course she panicked and despaired, but then she moved. She focused on her little fingers, willing them to wiggle, and when they did, the rest of her body moved, too.With only three weeks to go and very little distance to run before the big day, I hope to hold on to her example. I hope to keep moving my legs despite any pain or fear of what might happen in the nearly four hours of running. Like her, I hope to have faith in myself and to live in the moment.