Running towards a goal
I was three glasses into a bottle of red wine one night in early February and feeling sorry for myself which had become a common theme. Instead of planning my husband’s birthday party which was looming in the next few weeks, I jumped on my laptop and decided to sign up for my first marathon. I tipsily typed in my credit card information and clicked register. When I found the email confirmation in my inbox the next day, I immediately thought “oh sh**, what did I just do?”
It's not like I wasn’t a runner. I had completed a half marathon in 2014, but then my parents had been involved in a motorcycle accident. I lost my dad and nearly lost my mom too. Life, especially my training life, came to a screeching halt. I spent most of my time working and visiting my mother and the rest tending to her financial affairs and medical paperwork. Home became just a place to sleep; I couldn't even be bothered to cook dinner for my husband and me. If I wanted to work out in the few minutes I could spare, I was too depressed.
However, the thought of running a marathon had always been in the back of my mind. I somehow had convinced myself that running 26.2 miles would give me the ultimate sense of accomplishment. I knew it would require discipline, dedication, and mental fortitude - qualities I lacked because everyone knew I was a quitter.
My parents knew it better than anyone. As a child, I gave up on anything that was too hard, but they would always push me to stick with it. My mother enrolled me in gymnastics when I was five, and I quit because I couldn’t do a complete cartwheel. How was I supposed to become the next Nadia Comaneci if my legs didn’t stick straight up in the air like a starfish as I tumbled on the mat? Little did I know that Comaneci wasn’t known as much for her floor routines as her for her uneven bar exercises, but I wouldn’t have been willing to work on my upper body strength anyway. I played varsity softball throughout high school but begged my parents every year to let me quit.
“Why?” my mother would ask with a pleading voice. “We love to watch you play.”
I could run, I could hit, I could field, but I never pushed myself to be better. My varsity coach Mr. Jubenville told me once that I had the most physical potential he may have ever seen in a player but “no talent.” He was right. I didn’t practice, and I stubbornly didn’t listen to advice. I believed that if I were born to be good at something it would just naturally happen without any training. So why did I think I was going to run 26.2 miles on a course that was labeled “challenging” for seasoned marathoners? (I read those reviews after I registered for the race.) Because 2017 was going to be different.
My first training run was on July 2nd, fourth months before my marathon. It was 6:45 am, and after choking down a banana in my car, I nervously approached the group of runners standing outside the store that was sponsoring the training program. I thought we were supposed to be running 9 miles that day, which was 3 miles longer than the 6 miles I had grown accustomed to over the months of running to my mother’s rehabilitation facility. In a group of about 20 people, who all knew each other, I felt utterly alone. My outfit reeked of newbie marathoner runner stench, right down to my Nike sneakers that I thought were good for long runs but as was later pointed out to me, they were worse than gym training shoes.
I picked out the running bib with my name on it. Carolyn - West Hartford written in swirly blue handwriting. You’ll be sweating all over this bib soon, I thought to myself. Looking around the room, I could see people using foam rollers or doing jumping jacks. My stomach churned with nervous excitement. How fast were these runners? They all looked sinewy and lean; their skin wrapped tightly around their sleek frames. I felt like a hulking mass. My quadriceps had always been extra bulky, built for intense, fast bursts of speed, and not long-distance running.
It's not like I wasn’t a runner. I had completed a half marathon in 2014, but then my parents had been involved in a motorcycle accident. I lost my dad and nearly lost my mom too. Life, especially my training life, came to a screeching halt. I spent most of my time working and visiting my mother and the rest tending to her financial affairs and medical paperwork. Home became just a place to sleep; I couldn't even be bothered to cook dinner for my husband and me. If I wanted to work out in the few minutes I could spare, I was too depressed.
However, the thought of running a marathon had always been in the back of my mind. I somehow had convinced myself that running 26.2 miles would give me the ultimate sense of accomplishment. I knew it would require discipline, dedication, and mental fortitude - qualities I lacked because everyone knew I was a quitter.
My parents knew it better than anyone. As a child, I gave up on anything that was too hard, but they would always push me to stick with it. My mother enrolled me in gymnastics when I was five, and I quit because I couldn’t do a complete cartwheel. How was I supposed to become the next Nadia Comaneci if my legs didn’t stick straight up in the air like a starfish as I tumbled on the mat? Little did I know that Comaneci wasn’t known as much for her floor routines as her for her uneven bar exercises, but I wouldn’t have been willing to work on my upper body strength anyway. I played varsity softball throughout high school but begged my parents every year to let me quit.
“Why?” my mother would ask with a pleading voice. “We love to watch you play.”
I could run, I could hit, I could field, but I never pushed myself to be better. My varsity coach Mr. Jubenville told me once that I had the most physical potential he may have ever seen in a player but “no talent.” He was right. I didn’t practice, and I stubbornly didn’t listen to advice. I believed that if I were born to be good at something it would just naturally happen without any training. So why did I think I was going to run 26.2 miles on a course that was labeled “challenging” for seasoned marathoners? (I read those reviews after I registered for the race.) Because 2017 was going to be different.
My first training run was on July 2nd, fourth months before my marathon. It was 6:45 am, and after choking down a banana in my car, I nervously approached the group of runners standing outside the store that was sponsoring the training program. I thought we were supposed to be running 9 miles that day, which was 3 miles longer than the 6 miles I had grown accustomed to over the months of running to my mother’s rehabilitation facility. In a group of about 20 people, who all knew each other, I felt utterly alone. My outfit reeked of newbie marathoner runner stench, right down to my Nike sneakers that I thought were good for long runs but as was later pointed out to me, they were worse than gym training shoes.
I picked out the running bib with my name on it. Carolyn - West Hartford written in swirly blue handwriting. You’ll be sweating all over this bib soon, I thought to myself. Looking around the room, I could see people using foam rollers or doing jumping jacks. My stomach churned with nervous excitement. How fast were these runners? They all looked sinewy and lean; their skin wrapped tightly around their sleek frames. I felt like a hulking mass. My quadriceps had always been extra bulky, built for intense, fast bursts of speed, and not long-distance running.
One of the coaches stood up on a bench and started speaking to the crowd.
“Thanks you all for coming today. I know we’re going to have a great training season together!” Her voice was saccharine and extra peppy. I was sure she was one of those people who leaped out of bed every morning at the crack of dawn to run.
I hated those people.
“I see a lot of familiar faces so by a show of hands how many of you have trained with us before?” The majority of the people in the group raised their hands
“Great! And how many of you have run a marathon before?”
Everyone raised their hand except for me.
“Wonderful! Well, for the one person who didn’t raise their hand, welcome. You’ve come to the right place,” she giggled as she said it.
Seriously? I was pretty sure when I had signed up for the training program that it expressly said it would help people train for their FIRST marathon - not their fifteenth. I would also later find out during the personal introductions that most of the runners were triathletes; even more alarming. I was only there to train for running. With my unreasonable fear of open water swimming, especially in lakes and ponds with slimy freshwater plant life - I would NEVER be competing in a triathlon.
A few miles into the run, I recognized a familiar face in the group. A woman named Fernanda whose mother was a resident of Bel-Air Manor, the skilled nursing facility where my mom had just spent a year in sub-acute rehabilitation.
I visited my mother nearly every day, and often I would find her outside her room, sitting in her power wheelchair and chatting with a group of women. Some of them were residents in the nursing home part of the facility and others were family members like me, diligently visiting their loved ones and trying to forget that the brightly lit room with tall windows and vaulted ceilings was, in fact, an institution and not a living room of someone’s home. Fernanda had run more than 30 marathons. She was a stay at home mother with four kids, so she was able to find the time to train. As we jogged together, we chatted about our mothers. Her mom was from Portugal and didn’t speak any English. Living at the nursing home as long as she had, everyone called her "mama," and so I did too when I would greet her. She would smile, exposing her toothless gums and wave. I looked forward to those visits because that was the only time my mother seemed to be at ease with the world. What was lost - my father in the motorcycle accident that also maimed her and stole her ability to walk - was not spoken of on those evenings, only the day's activities and nurse gossip.
When my mother's medical insurance refused to pay for further days at Bel-Air, my sister and I were devastated. It wasn't just the fact that she would lose her regular schedule of therapy, she would lose her friends as well. We were forced to find an assisted living facility, but we promised ourselves it would only be temporary until we could buy her a house and figure out a way to afford in-home care.
I told Fernanda all about this as I tried to forget we were in motion.
“That sounds nice,” she said. “She needs that; she’s too young to be in assisted living. With my mom, we had no choice, my sister and I simply couldn’t do it anymore. But your mom - she’s still got a lot of time.”
She was right. My mother was a 64-year-old widower. If had she lost my father but remained physically intact; her life would be completely different. Instead of worrying about constant personal care, my sister and I would be helping her to downsize and move into a cute condo near work and friends. Maybe she would even start to date after a few years, but now, that could never be the case.
Running had always given me the space to think, clear my head and focus on each breath, each step or to slip into deep concentration. On this Sunday morning, surrounded by all of these marathon enthusiasts, I was questioning my every step. I wanted to be able to give my mother the best life possible in a safe environment. However, after two years of taking care of her needs, worrying about every doctor’s appointment, every past-due bill, arguing with insurance companies, dealing with lawyers, accountants, financial planners, police and victim’s advocates; I was exhausted and losing myself. This is what had pushed me to sign up for a marathon because I was running myself ragged on a daily basis and not getting anywhere. I needed to prove that I could put myself first, to reach a goal of my own.
“Fernanda, can I ask you something?” I could barely push out the words as we slogged up a hill.
“Yeah?”
“Why did you start running marathons?”
“Because I needed to do something that was just for me,” she said.
“Thanks, I needed to hear that.”
I found out during the middle of our run that day that we were running 10 miles instead of nine. Already one mile past my goal, I was off to a good start.
“Thanks you all for coming today. I know we’re going to have a great training season together!” Her voice was saccharine and extra peppy. I was sure she was one of those people who leaped out of bed every morning at the crack of dawn to run.
I hated those people.
“I see a lot of familiar faces so by a show of hands how many of you have trained with us before?” The majority of the people in the group raised their hands
“Great! And how many of you have run a marathon before?”
Everyone raised their hand except for me.
“Wonderful! Well, for the one person who didn’t raise their hand, welcome. You’ve come to the right place,” she giggled as she said it.
Seriously? I was pretty sure when I had signed up for the training program that it expressly said it would help people train for their FIRST marathon - not their fifteenth. I would also later find out during the personal introductions that most of the runners were triathletes; even more alarming. I was only there to train for running. With my unreasonable fear of open water swimming, especially in lakes and ponds with slimy freshwater plant life - I would NEVER be competing in a triathlon.
A few miles into the run, I recognized a familiar face in the group. A woman named Fernanda whose mother was a resident of Bel-Air Manor, the skilled nursing facility where my mom had just spent a year in sub-acute rehabilitation.
I visited my mother nearly every day, and often I would find her outside her room, sitting in her power wheelchair and chatting with a group of women. Some of them were residents in the nursing home part of the facility and others were family members like me, diligently visiting their loved ones and trying to forget that the brightly lit room with tall windows and vaulted ceilings was, in fact, an institution and not a living room of someone’s home. Fernanda had run more than 30 marathons. She was a stay at home mother with four kids, so she was able to find the time to train. As we jogged together, we chatted about our mothers. Her mom was from Portugal and didn’t speak any English. Living at the nursing home as long as she had, everyone called her "mama," and so I did too when I would greet her. She would smile, exposing her toothless gums and wave. I looked forward to those visits because that was the only time my mother seemed to be at ease with the world. What was lost - my father in the motorcycle accident that also maimed her and stole her ability to walk - was not spoken of on those evenings, only the day's activities and nurse gossip.
When my mother's medical insurance refused to pay for further days at Bel-Air, my sister and I were devastated. It wasn't just the fact that she would lose her regular schedule of therapy, she would lose her friends as well. We were forced to find an assisted living facility, but we promised ourselves it would only be temporary until we could buy her a house and figure out a way to afford in-home care.
I told Fernanda all about this as I tried to forget we were in motion.
“That sounds nice,” she said. “She needs that; she’s too young to be in assisted living. With my mom, we had no choice, my sister and I simply couldn’t do it anymore. But your mom - she’s still got a lot of time.”
She was right. My mother was a 64-year-old widower. If had she lost my father but remained physically intact; her life would be completely different. Instead of worrying about constant personal care, my sister and I would be helping her to downsize and move into a cute condo near work and friends. Maybe she would even start to date after a few years, but now, that could never be the case.
Running had always given me the space to think, clear my head and focus on each breath, each step or to slip into deep concentration. On this Sunday morning, surrounded by all of these marathon enthusiasts, I was questioning my every step. I wanted to be able to give my mother the best life possible in a safe environment. However, after two years of taking care of her needs, worrying about every doctor’s appointment, every past-due bill, arguing with insurance companies, dealing with lawyers, accountants, financial planners, police and victim’s advocates; I was exhausted and losing myself. This is what had pushed me to sign up for a marathon because I was running myself ragged on a daily basis and not getting anywhere. I needed to prove that I could put myself first, to reach a goal of my own.
“Fernanda, can I ask you something?” I could barely push out the words as we slogged up a hill.
“Yeah?”
“Why did you start running marathons?”
“Because I needed to do something that was just for me,” she said.
“Thanks, I needed to hear that.”
I found out during the middle of our run that day that we were running 10 miles instead of nine. Already one mile past my goal, I was off to a good start.
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