Tape a leaf stem to your medal

It does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop. -Confucius

I am beginning to doubt (wonder?) if I can actually complete the Flying Pig half-marathon I've signed up for on May 3rd in Cincinnati. Seriously. Dear lord in heaven above, forget running. Even walking it? I'm not an athlete. Nowhere near one. My face turns bright red within 5 minutes of walking fast. It turns purple at 10 minutes. And at 15 minutes, I see in the mirror that the very nice man on the reclining bike behind me at the YWCA is conferring with a man with Big Calf Muscles and surreptitiously dialing 9-1-1.

I'm not kidding.

More than a dozen 37days readers will join me there from 12 states. What if I can't do it? The description of THE BIG CLIMB on the race website has done me in. I'm ill prepared, paralyzed by the enormity of it.

I mentioned all this anxiety on Facebook, and got a response from a woman I've never even met, a woman named Amy McCracken who has written me before. Hers was a response that made me cry. Actually, as I wrote to her in response, it didn't just make me cry, but sob the sobby sob, the heaving sobby sob. Because she wrote to me. Because she said I can do it. Because she said that all I have to do is run a mile. And, of course, because of the story of mile 10, and the story of the leaf.

Dear Patti,

I'm signed up for the Monument Ave 10K.  I have not run since getting a free pass in the form on pneumonia in early February. I have friends coming to town to run the race with me. I have a bib number, new shorts, and 9 days until race day. I'm so going down.
 
You have 46 days!
You can do it.
All you really need to do is run a mile.
Don't get distracted by having to do it 13 times.
All you really need to do is run one mile.
 
One mile.
 
That puts you at mile 2, and well on your way.
 
After that, you reach mile 3, and you can't believe you're out there doing exactly what you said you would a couple of months ago.
 
Take a break at mile 4 and make up a story about the person who just whizzed past you.  Imagine that they have overcome great odds to be there–and be inspired by their incredible (albeit imaginary) journey.  The story you make up about them will probably have some truth to it. 
 
Ah, mile 5.  It's just one mile.  All you have to do is run a mile. 
 
At mile 6.2 you will have set a new personal best for your 10K time. Relish it.
 
Somewhere between mile 6 and 7 you will reach the halfway point. Do not, do not, do not start thinking about Zeno's Dichotomy. You WILL reach your destination. 
 
Mile 7 will bring challenges in the form of hunger and possibly a new blister. Drink your water. Tell Emma a joke.  Have one prepared in advance. 
 
Eight miles. Eight miles. Take in the fact that you have just walked/crawled/panted through eight miles.   
 
Spend mile 9 framing up the essay you will be writing about this experience. Think of the first line.
 
At mile 10 you may have the pleasure of experiencing a fatigue that makes you an emotional firestorm. As your body starts to become more and more tired, your mind will race with memories of every sad thing that ever happened to you in your life. You'll ache for things you have lost. You will think of everyone you would like to see at the finish line, but who will not be there. You will wonder why everyone in the world doesn't just break down weeping at least once a day. You might weep. Right then and there at mile 10. Crying and running is so hard. Embrace it. Before you have completed mile 10, the universe will give you a sign that it is all going to be okay. And that you are exactly where you need to be. Doing what you need to be doing. For me, once, it came in the form of a falling leave that landed squarely into my upturned palm. That leaf was my long gone sister coming to finish the race with me. The stem of it is still taped to my finishers medal.
 
Try to avoid the maniacal laughter that comes when you start realizing certain things at mile 11. Things such as Could it possibly be true that I traveled to this point voluntarily?  You mean to tell me that I actually paid money to be here?
 
The crowd goes wild at mile 12. Others are finished at this point and are already wearing their medals. They will line the course and cheer for you and all the runners who are still at it. You will feel their energy. Do NOT think about all of the people who have finished before you. Instead, think of the MILLIONS of people who you beat JUST BY SHOWING UP. A long time ago, I finished an early morning 8-mile trail run dead last. My son greeted me at the finish line and said, "Think of all of the people who didn't even sign up for this race–who would never even imagine doing this on a winter morning. You beat all of them".
 
You'd think that once you reach mile 13 you are done.  You will want to hunt down the person who decided that a half-marathon would be 13.1 miles.  Insanity.  I'm not gonna lie to you, that tenth of a mile might suck.
 
But then, oh my gosh, then.  Then.  Then.  Then.  You will cross the finish line.  I am not even going to try to tell you how you will feel.  It's a secret.  A treat.  And it will be ALL yours.
 
I promise you will love May 3.
 
All you have to do is run one mile.
 
xoxo

Amy

My deepest thanks to Amy. I'll be carrying her note with me up The Big Climb. What would you send me up the hill with, I wonder?

I'm off for a big walk up a big hill. One mile at a time.

37days Do it Now Challenge

Does knowing whether you'll finish a race stop you from entering it? Where "race" means something different to each of us? Remember what Amy's son said the day she finished dead last: "Think of all of the people who didn't even sign up for this race–You beat all of them."

Does fearing what you'll look like in the race stop you? I can't imagine it's going to be pretty, my purple face and big old hips and varicose veins and all. At one point in my life, it would have stopped me, it has stopped me. But now I'm going to be 50 and the hips are what they are and the white hair is what it is and and the purple face is what it is and I'm going to SHOW UP just like that. Just exactly like that.

What "race" do you need to enter, forgetting for the moment how you'll look or what people will say or whether or not you think you can do it? Name the race, my friend, and enter it. Not to win–winning is overrated–and not to go fast because fast will kill you, but perhaps just not to stop, like Confucius said.

Who is your Amy, cheering you on?

Tape a leaf stem to your medal and keep right on going.