Light at the End of the Tunnel: On my first 5k

I ran [ahem] my first 5k ever yesterday.

Setting aside that it was, in fact, my first, and that I did it 57 years into my life, I didn’t think that the effort would be a strenuous one. Not that long ago, before my beloved pup passed away, a couple of high-speed, two-mile walks with him was a daily ritual. He was a Jack Russell terrier, a bullet of a beast, slowed down only by his need to pee, poop, or say hi to the next stranger on his path. These days, as I build back from the loss and reintroduce healthy routines, I’ve managed to build some stamina in a walk/jog (a.k.a. a “wog”) combo roughly two and a half miles long. My timing doesn’t concern me much. The goal is to simply be able to run all of it one day. Gracefully. And yes, I alternate wog days with weight-resistance days at the gym.

Still – and I write this with a mixed sense of pride and WTFness – the 5k was pretty damn hard. Within the first couple of minutes, I was already holy-shitting the jogging intervals. Why? A number of real reasons contributed, I’m sure. It was hot and humid. I hadn’t been able to wog in two weeks, thanks to local bear sightings and air quality madness. And, as a lifelong night owl, a 7:30 a.m. wake-up call meant I’d slept for roughly three or four restless hours.

Whatever the cause, I begged my encouraging friend to go on without me. As she reluctantly went ahead, I changed my goal from “keeping up” to keeping my breath and posture steady. About a mile in, it was just me, my water bottle, and the handful of fellow speed demons, taking it a bit slower as dictated by things seen and unseen, such as age, baby strollers, and maybe just a simple desire to walk, not run, this lovely day.

The last mile felt endless. It was there that I caught up to a Little Girl of maybe seven or eight, as exasperated and done with the thing as I was. She was accompanied by what appeared to be Grandmother and Father, annoyingly full of forward-motion. The heat and distance didn’t seem to have fazed Grandma, who was gliding up and down the street in sunglasses, sunhat, and palazzo pants as if on some promenade on the Amalfi Coast. Father was in requisite running gear, hopping next to, in front of, and behind LG, trying to plug her into his own source of energy. They were relentless.

“Come on!”

“You can do it!”

“Stop complaining!”

“You cannot quit!”

As I walked past her, all I could do was say, “Hello,” and “I understand.”

I wanted them to let her be. I wanted her to be allowed to complain and go slow. I wanted them to just. shut. up. But that is another blog post. This post is about another moment:

About 15 long, sweaty minutes later, we rounded the last corner. We didn’t know it was the last corner until one of the friendly, wonderful, encouraging cops on the path informed us all that we were “almost home.” The Finish Line was only yards away, good God.

I watched as LG sped up a bit to confirm this news, turned left, and with the evidence of the giant “Finish Line” arch just ahead, grew wings. She was suddenly nimble and swift and weightless. As if the last 30 minutes had been nothing.

As she took flight. all I could do was marvel at her. Isn’t it something, I thought, how draining that damn tunnel is…and how any sign of light at the end of it can lift you up and past the dark parts.

This isn’t a story of hope, I don’t think. Hope is intangible. It’s what we cling to during the dark parts. Hard to find once lost, no matter how much everyone around you tells you to hang on. And all hail to those Hope Whisperers…the grandmothers, fathers, friends, partners and poets who hold the lanterns high over our heads, making sure we at least bear witness to the miracle of our own baby steps.

It all matters.

But oh, that view of a clearing at the end of a struggle. That’s what I wish us all this fine Monday.

To your wings, kids.

S