Day 1

Today is Day 1.

Actually, today is like Day 784. I started running more than two years ago. I was inconsistent -- five minutes on the treadmill, maybe a whole mile if I felt sassy and motivated. I was more concerned with losing weight than becoming a runner, so to structure my efforts, I did a Couch-to-5K program in May 2010, concluding with my first timed 5K (3.1 miles), the Ridge Run in Beverly, Chicago. I ran with my friend Alexandra, who had convinced me to sign up in the first place. It was Memorial Day, and it was hot even at 7:30 a.m. And despite never once encountering a hill in the entire Chicago metropolitan area, I found that Beverly is full of them. I was panting hard by the end of mile one, and I walked some of it. I don't remember my finish time, something like 40 or 45 minutes.

But I finished.

Me and my friend Alexandra at the 2010 Ridge Run

I did another 5K later that summer, in slightly better time (less than 40 minutes). Then I rested, got tired of the treadmill, did other things -- dancing, boot camp, anything to keep me off the hamster wheel. Winter passed, and in the name of weight loss I begrudgingly logged a few miles here and there, but I still didn't run easily, or happily. It was a chore, just like it had been in high school gym, when I inevitably finished last in the class. Every time.

As summer 2011 approached, I signed up for my second Ridge Run 5K, partly out of nostalgia and partly out of recognition that running was an expedient way to get in shape, and it would behoove me to learn to like it. It was like learning to like vegetables or doing my taxes. I knew it would make life easier if I liked to run. And apparently the sporadic running had actually made a difference, because I did a little better in my second annual Ridge Run -- 35 minutes or so. I felt rejuvenated. This was progress.

 My friend Rita and me at the 2011 Ridge Run

I started running more often, mostly on the treadmill since I worked out during my lunch hour and I was scared of running outside where people could see me. My runs got slightly longer, and I made an effort to keep my legs moving until I gasped for air and had to jump onto the edges of the treadmill to rest. My lungs burned, and I got frustrated. I had more bad runs than good ones; I'd intend to run three miles but only get through one before moving on to something else, ab work or elliptical, anything to get me off the treadmill. Running was boring, even more boring than taxes and cauliflower.

This was about the time I remembered that I live on one of the world's most beautiful and recreation-friendly lakefronts. My friend Brittan and I started going for runs outside, at night, after work. On July 4th we ran three miles, from our apartment to Belmont Harbor, watching people walk home from the fireworks that they didn't know had been rescheduled to the day before. It was invigorating, dodging around people on the sidewalk, trying to keep up the pace despite physical obstacles. Prior to that, my only obstacle was my own inertia. In the face of people staring at me as I ran past, I ran taller, faster. I had something to prove.

And I absolutely loved running outside.

I signed up for more races, shifting my training from the treadmill to Lake Shore. I ran timed 5Ks every other month. I still struggled to complete the training mileage I set out for myself, especially on days I had boot camp or dance class or a very big cheeseburger or important TV shows to watch. But I kept signing up for 5Ks, with friends or alone, and so then I had to run them. As running became routine, my 5K race time slowly crept down, from 35 minutes to 30 minutes, but I barely noticed. I was happy just to run three miles without stopping. I was happy just to finish.

I decided to be daring and signed up for a 10K (6.2 miles), a distance I'd never attempted. I ran it with Alexandra -- who knew I had such a community of runners around me this entire time? -- and then, two months later and on a whim, I ran a half-marathon (13.1 miles) with my friend LaJuanda. I'd never run that far, ever. That race, in my mind, made it official. I trained for it, pushing myself harder, running farther without stopping, four and then five and then six miles. After the race I bought a "13.1" bumper sticker and proudly stuck it on my (otherwise sticker-free) car. I'd achieved something that a majority of the population does not attempt. I was now a runner.

 Me and LaJuanda after the 2011 Monster Dash Half Marathon

It took me awhile to conceive that I could not only keep up with other runners, but pass them. I wasn't the slowest on the track anymore, like in high school. Without realizing it, and despite my contrived, melodramatic emotional setbacks, I'd trained my body to handle it. My lungs could handle gulping for air for more than an hour, with few breaks. My leg muscles didn't scream after half a mile. My eyes didn't lose focus. I didn't feel like I wanted to pass out. It was strange to feel good while running, but I'd never felt more alive. I imagined I was a running animal, my body working hard but efficiently, everything lined up and working together. I found a head space I didn't know existed, what some people call "runner's high," when after a few miles your body moves mechanically and your mind wanders. Running not only changed me, but it was also enjoyable. Moreso than cauliflower.

In January 2012, I ran another half-marathon with LaJuanda. It was sleeting, and we arrived late. We bucked across the start line a full 10 minutes after the race began, prompting the announcer to crack something like "Looks like the fun run has begun!" over the loudspeaker. We spent the next two hours chugging forward through the snow and sleet. It took us about five minutes to catch up with the slowest runners, and from then on I was back in obstacle mode. First it was the walkers we dodged, then the slow runners, then the steady pace runners. I kept my head down and moved forward, ignoring the mile markers. It was methodical. I lost LaJuanda after four miles, as she slowed down to avoid injuring her knee. Not one person passed me, since I'd started at the very back, and this inflated my ego. I caught up with the 11-minute mile pace group, then the 10-minute mile pace. I couldn't believe it, even as it was happening. I ran up alongside the girl holding the "10-minute mile" sign, bewildered, and asked whether she was still on pace. She said she was, and I realized I'd run faster than I realized I was capable, for nine straight miles without stopping. I finished under my goal of 2:20 -- and that's without adjusting for the late start.

The day after that half-marathon, I started wondering if I could maybe survive a full marathon. It was something I had never even considered. It was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Completely crazy.

But it just might work.

And as soon as it even entered my mind as a possibility, I knew I'd do it. I thought of nothing else for a week, and then I signed up for the Bank of America Chicago Marathon on October 9, 2012. And then, like the summer vacation before the hardest school year of your life, I took a break. I ran here and there, even taking a sport watch with me on a five-week trip to Europe. I ran a few miles by the river in Florence, a few miles from my hostel to the Eiffel Tower in Paris, a few miles along Lake Zurich in Switzerland. I ran slowly and walked without shame. It was mostly to say I'd done it, that I'd gone to these wonderful places and kept up my running, but it was also to prevent my bones from being completely replaced by pasta. Still, I got home to Chicago and I was shocked at how quickly I'd lost my pace and stamina. I wheezed through a few weeks of self-flagellant runs, and I struggled to remember what it was about running that I liked.

Last week, I got serious. I ran 15 miles in training. I set goals and I met them. Yesterday I ran a 10K (6.2 miles) in 59 minutes, which is slightly better than a 10-minute mile and eons better than any run I'd done previously. This summer, I'm paying attention to race times. Because this summer, I'm training for my first marathon.

Today is Day 1 of the 18 weeks leading up to the marathon, which is the typical official training period. I was advised to enter training with a weekly mileage of 15 miles already under my belt, so I consider last week my soft opening, the evidence that I can handle what's coming. This morning, I wrote my training schedule into my daily planner. On the advice of more than one friend, I'll be following Hal Higdon's Intermediate 1 schedule, which consists of long weekend runs and shorter midweek runs, with a day of cross-training and a day of rest each week. The schedule includes one long run of at least eight miles each week; and two Sundays in September, I'll be running 20 miles.

The structure comforts me -- if it's worked for others, it will work for me -- but I'm still completely and utterly terrified.

Today is Day 1, but if we're being honest, every day is Day 1. It's easier now that I understand the benefits of running, now that I understand the desire to stop is just that -- a desire, not a physical necessity -- but I know myself well enough to know I'll get frustrated. I'll want to stop, I'll slip from the program. Every day I'll have to remind myself that, short of injury, inertia is the only thing in my way. Running teaches you that stopping is the worst thing you can do. If you don't run, you won't finish, and the longer you put it off, the more frustrated you'll get. Just like writing.

No wonder running makes sense to me.