I ran my first half-marathon of the year this morning, despite a complete failure to train adequately and a Friday evening spent crying in a Walgreens parking lot with my Mama on the line, listening to her tell me I am, indeed, a lovable person.
Breakups are never easy, but because this one was not initiated by me, it came as a bit of a shock. I suppose, upon reflection (13.1 miles allows for a lot of that), I saw it coming. And I suppose it was necessary. For all the happiness I felt in his presence, there was something missing he was more willing to name than I was. He's older, perhaps he is actually wiser. I can accept that.
I spent all of last summer, all of those races, single. It wasn't a bad gig, but I missed, badly, having a boyfriend to cheer me on, or at least meet me for burgers after particularly long runs. I missed looking for his hat in the crowd. And I missed his texts wishing me good luck. I was happy, looking forward to today's race, to know that that was back, that I had someone to meet for breakfast afterwards, someone to tease me a bit for the pained limp down the stairs. To have lost it mere hours before race time was, in a word, difficult.
But races always make me feel strong, whether I'm having a particularly speedy day or if I'm slogging through with every ounce of Little Engine That Could-edness I can muster. I thought of The Boy often, but I didn't think of him the whole time. It seems like a simple thing but I will say that I'm impressed by my ability to focus on the task at hand when other other areas of my life simultaneously implode. It has never been difficult for me to run hard and well after a breakup (done it before), just as it has never been hard for me to focus at work/school when disappointment was the undercurrent of my day. My heart detaches from my brain nicely, I guess, in most instances. I wasn't thinking of him when I crossed the finish.
The road does not break up with me. It breaks my heart on occasion, it exhausts me, it frustrates me, but it is always a steady, stable presence. Whether I'm counting miles or minutes, its solidness is something I crave on days that the rest of my world feels wobbly. I like the dependability of pain, I like the ache as I climb out of my car and walk slowly to my apartment. I like the silly hungers after a long run, my bizarre desire for anything as long as it includes ketchup, and the happy exhaustion that graces the rest of the day. I like the drumming of shoes on pavement, the pulse of swinging arms to the Florence + the Machine or the Queen or the Rolling Stones or the Mumford & Sons playing through my earphones. I like watching people pause, watching them walk at mile 10 and then watching them pass me at 11. I like the solitude and solidarity of running, and I needed it today.
It was a strong, well-paced run on a day I could have allowed myself to be sloppy. It was a minor victory after what felt like defeat. So I am grateful for those 13.1 miles, and all the heartache it allowed me to ignore for 2 hours and 28 minutes.
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