Last week I was talking to Griffin, who, one day earlier, had gone to the gym for the first time in two or three years. When I asked him what he did there, he told me that among other things, he ran. Naturally, the next things out of my mouth were how far and how fast. He answered that he put the treadmill on an incline of five, started out at 5 mph and went back and forth between 5 mph and varying speeds for a mile, 7 being the highest.
Wow, that's really good! I've been running for years, and I work out all the time, and I can't run at 7 mph, I responded.
A couple days after that conversation, I went to the gym instead of running outside for the first time in months. Because it was Saturday and Sundays are my long run, my plan was to run two easy miles like I usually do. Onto the treadmill I stepped and began my 5.5 mph slog. And I started thinking about Griffin.
I started thinking about how Griffin had run 7 mph, Griffin who had run for the first time in years, Griffin who didn't work out at all, and I thought to myself, if Griffin can run 7 mph, I can run 7 mph! I'm in way better than shape than Griffin!
And you know what I did next?
Wrong! You were going to say I ran at 7 mph, weren't you? (I know you were. Don't pretend.)
What I did was set the treadmill at 6.5 and run at that pace for about a minute. You know, give a faster pace than I was used to a whirl. I then went back to 5.5 where I ran for a minute before moving up to 6.6 for another minute and then back down to 5.5. Then I did the same thing for 6.7; 6.8; 6.9; and yes, finally, 7.
7!
There I was, running at 7 mph, faster than I'd ever set the treadmill to in my entire life, and you know what happened?
I didn't die!
I didn't die, I didn't fly off, I didn't get hurt. I didn't even get abnormally out of breath.
You know what I did do, though?
I felt fucking thrilled.
I felt fucking thrilled, and even it was only for two minutes, I felt super proud of running at an 8:34 mile pace, the fastest I'd ever run, and I text Griffin, all excited, as soon as I got home.
You inspired me to put the treadmill up to 7 mph today
I was like, Griffin does't even run
If he can do it
And I could!
And then, once I finished texting, I asked myself why I was always so afraid to do anything, so cautious about everything.
For so long I've told myself this story, this story about what I can't and can do. This story about how I'm built, about my limitations, about my ineptitude.
I'm not built for running.
I've got these wide Greek-Italian hips.
The Venus of Willendorf and I may as well be twins.
I mean, I've been injured before, yes. I've hurt my IT band, I've hurt my Achilles tendon, I wore custom orthotics, I wore a boot.
But you know what else I did? I ran a half-marathon in January, my first since the half-marathon debacle of 2007 that left me incapacitated and nearly crippled for weeks, and not only did I do it half an hour faster than the average first half-marathon time for women between 20 and 50 years old, but I was totally fine when I was done; I recently took more than two minutes off last year's 5k times, running a sub 30-minute 5k three times in the last two months; and I started running 9:35 miles at my run club on Wednesday nights - and, yet, despite these accomplishments, when someone at my run club commented a couple weeks ago that I've gotten fast, I immediately corrected him. I've gotten faster, I said, emphasis on the er.
People who read my blog, the point?
That story I tell myself; that's all it is: the story I tell myself. I'm _______. I say it all the time, forget about running but about so many things. You know what, though? I think it might be possible that I'm only those things because I think I'm those things, and well, if I think I'm those things, and it makes me those things, doesn't that mean I can just think - and, therefore, become - other things?
***
A few days ago, so I guess about four days after I ran at 7 mph, Griffin called me.
Hello?
Hey, I'm on my way home from they gym and can't talk, but I just wanted to call you to tell you that you inspired me.
Goddammit, Griffin! I replied, laughing.
He laughed. I thought to myself, If my mom could run at 7 mph . . .
I interrupted him. How fast?
He continued as if I hadn't said a word. And I'm a man -
Griffin!
Then surely I can run faster.
Griffin! Just tell me!
And would you believe that fucking kid/man ran at 8.5 mph?
Motherfucker! I said. 8.5?
8.5, he answered.
Yeah, well, I'll see your 8.5, I replied.
And I actually think I can.
