Dear Kara,
I have been running on and off since 2006, after and old friend and flame introduced me to the long-forgotten art of running.
I remember that pre-puberty, I was quite the budding athlete: I would join tug-o-wars, 100-meter dashes, and come recess, I would be the first among a group of boys to hit the playground sets- running to get the best spot at the swings.
But puberty changed things. Breasts developed, my period came, limbs became awkward appendages, I had cute crushes, and well, sports became less of a feminine thing that over the years, the only other sport that I would involve myself in was swimming...and later, aerobics.
A few weeks ago, David, my co-teacher in AC re-introduced me to running...of a different kind: really running long distance. He encouraged me, along with another co-teacher, to run my first 5k.
And run we did!
Little did I know that that fisrt 5k run would bring me realizations I had never fully grasped before. At the duration of my run, I kept thinking of why the Christian walk is compared so closely to running a race.
In the beginning, everything seems so fresh, so clear. The runner is excited. Refreshed. Energized. Everyone is running side by side, and challenged to go and finish the race. But after one lap, even at 6am, the heat from all the carbohydrates being burned has accumulated. Each runner has followed his own gait, and some have even started walking. The runner's legs have begun to feel the effects of pounding on hard pavement. Sweat is now trickling upon one's brow, and each trickle continues to blind the runner as she pursues the run.
Breathing becomes more harrowed, and if not for an experienced runner-mentor beside me calling on encouragement, offering me a swig of refreshment, and occasionally leading the way out of obstacles, I would have stopped and rested...and the sudden rush of blood to my head would have made me faint on the spot, rendering me unable to finish the race.
Now I'm not a fainting person. Nor am I easily discouraged. I signed up for the 5k run knowing that I would do anything to finish it. So I trained. I prepped my body, however small my efforts. I asked my running friends for tips. I followed their advice. But during the run itself, especially at the last leg, I was thinking: "The finish line seems so close...yet so far away." In spite of the distance I had already covered, the one thought that came to mind was "How could I ever get to where some of the other runners already were?" It seemed so far. It seemed impossible. My body seemed incapable of finishing what it had begun.
My legs were beginning to really burn, my breathing was haggard, and I was really exhausted. Only a few gulps of water every now and then, and David's urging to breathe deeply pushed me to continue my gait, to keep running the race...and the thought of finishing well (with a smile) kept me from slumping my shoulders and quitting.
Then, a few meters from the finish line, knowing that my dear friends would be there to cheer me on and take photos for posterity, I gathered up all my remaining strength, and sprinted on.
Yes, running a race is the closest metaphor to the Christian faith...and now, I truly, truly understand better why it is so.
Labels: essays, fitness, God, me, musings, running |
