Hemorrhoids the size of oranges and B.M.'s at inopportune moments. Excuses rooted in reality that result in unmet goals and puking in a plastic bag.
Let me back up. Before Elayne was born I signed up for the Indy Mini in good faith that this would provide good motivation for me to get back into the game and get my figure back after this tiny little precious life wreaked havoc on my body. Perhaps I should have had a bit more faith. Although I kept at Zumba without fail, finding the time and energy to run and train for 13.1 miles while attending to 3 children, a husband, a home, and a job (while also making sure to not neglect important tasks such as getting shellac on my nails and watching Scandal, Grey's, Nashville, and other trashy network television) was, shall I say, enormously difficult.
Early in January I talked a friend into signing up with me. I was extremely excited to have someone to run with on race day. We realized we wouldn't be able to train together with our crazy schedules, but it was great to know I would have someone to chat with and spur me on. We decided that our goal was not a specific finish time, but to run without ceasing. I imagined that by the time the day came, I would be more than ready. My hair would have grown long enough to put in a flowing ponytail, my legs and my butt would be toned to perfection, and 13.1 would be as enjoyable and satisfying as laying in my hammock on a sunny day with a good book and a never ending cup of coffee
However, as I stated earlier, my vision was interrupted by hemorroids and crap. On multiple occasions that I had set aside time to get in a long run, I would get going at a good pace, with my motivation high only to be struck with relentless pains at the 2 mile mark. The pains stopped me in my tracks and forced me to walk half a mile, tears nearly streaming my face as I clinched my butt
cheeks crying out to God, sincerely pleading that I would be able to hold it in until I could reach the nearest porcelain throne. God is faithful, yes. I made it there with nothing more than a small streak
as evidence of my troubles.
The very next time I set out with high hopes of reaching my training goals, this strange and horrifying phenomenon struck again. As if this complication was not enough, I suffered through several runs
with the hemorrhoids I have been alluding to hanging like a (very large) cluster of grapes, taunting
my efforts and trying to convince me that I should just forget it.
On the day of the race, I was NOT ready. My hair was pulled up in an unbecoming nub, having not
grown to the lengths that I had imagined. My booty still had a slight jiggle with each step, and what I
had hoped would be 2.5 hours of relaxing bliss proved to be a test of the mind, strength, endurance,
and heart. 3 weeks before the race, I squeezed out 10 miles and 2 weeks before 6, with no running at
all in between. For anyone that is a runner, or has any sense about them at all really, knows that this
is not the way to train, but rather a way of treating your body with a form of utter disrespect. As if all
of these other setbacks weren't enough, I am afraid I may have not only inherited my dad's bent
toward hemorrhoids, but also his horrific deteriorating knees. I hated to admit it, but my right knee
felt twisted and numb before I took my first step that morning.
And yet, the odds were not completely against me. Although the forecast called for rain and I was
preparing for the worst, when the day arrived, the weather conditions for running were perfection and I had Crystal by my side. It just so happens that she is one of the most encouraging and positive
people that I know. Not only that, but she had properly trained. I depended on her to set our pace. I
didn't want to spring out of the gate too fast and get tired too quickly. We easily discovered a
sustainable pace that suited both of us and set out with our minds irrevocably determined toward
reaching our goal. No walking, and possibly improving our time. (I ran 2 years ago and she, last
year.)
And we did, both of us even improving our previous times by over ten minutes. Just as we passed the
9 mile mark and I let out my victorious yelp, as is my practice at every single mile marker no matter
how long or short the race, Crystal asked me how I was doing and I admitted that it was difficult. I
was struggling. My mind and my body telling me that I couldn't do it, while my heart knew without a
shadow of doubt that I could. As my mind and my heart warred with each other, Crystal began to
pray out loud, and as she prayed for my knee, I realized that it wasn't hurting anymore. Perhaps it was
because I was completely numb from my hips down, but nonetheless, I was incredibly grateful and
aware of God's presence.
When I crossed the finish line and received my medal, my eyes burned from the accomplishment, but as my feet slowed, my body violently and surprisingly jolted, screaming its anger toward putting it through such a feat without proper training. The misery I felt was indescribable. My legs were shaking in pain, my head was spinning,and my stomach was tied in a thousand knots. I prayed for relief while smiling through our celebratory pictures and walking several blocks back to our car.
I have convinced myself that I became a new kind of athlete that day (if ever I have been an athlete at all), for I worked myself out to the point of vomiting in a plastic bag in the back of Crystal's mom's van. I had arrived and they were gracious and compassionate as my body responded and cleansed itself.
When I arrived home, my children were anxiously awaiting their mommy, who had a run a race equidistant to running to our church and back, only to hear me run into the house, slam my things down and hurl myself over the toilet. Judah came running and began to pat my back, whimpering slightly and pleading with me, wondering what was wrong.
I slept hard that afternoon and woke up with a thirst and a hunger I hadn't experienced for a while. I used my pain as an excuse to cuddle with my children and do absolutely nothing but sit with my family and feel enormously grateful for the ability to finish strong and steady. Even though I was the complete opposite of the graceful gazelle that I had hoped to be on race day, it was just as it should have been. Once again I was reminded that perfection isn't the goal. Faithfulness and perseverance is what I am striving for in this beautiful life. I was reminded that I don't have to have it all together and do it all, but I can admit my weakness and depend on those who are stronger to pull me along.
I learned. I grew. I am thankful and blessed. And a few unpleasantries in my bodily functions can't keep this girl down.
