Running the Race

When I entered my forties, I determined to give myself a challenge to celebrate the beginning of “the second half of my life,” so I signed up to run a half-marathon.

I had no idea how to achieve it, so I researched about it, which introduced me to terms that were like a foreign language: speed work, tempo, and long runs. 

The local paper advertised a group run every Saturday morning, and I decided to join it. I awakened extra early for the first run and dressed comfortably in my daughter’s PE shorts and t-shirt. I grabbed an old, chunky iPod abandoned in a kitchen drawer along with my son’s soccer water jug and headed out the door. 

Driving into the YMCA parking lot seemed like entering an unknown world. People in running outfits stretched, velcroed their tiny iPods around their arms, and little water bottles in belts around their waists, that included little pockets for their car keys and cell phones.

I looked at my big water jug and knew I couldn’t carry it for the 7-mile run.

“Everybody, get with your pace group, we’re about to begin!”

Pace group? How do I know what my pace is?

I took the car key out the key chain and threw my phone and water jug inside the car.

Oh Lord, please don’t let me pass out. I don’t know anybody and don’t have my phone to call home! 

I stuck the key in the only possible place, my sports bra, and started jogging as I untangled the earphones.

 Soon I realized my “pace” was in the back of the pack, only faster than the walkers. 

Just breath and focus, all you want is to finish the run. I had to convince myself not to give up.

The car key began to slide down my bra as soon as I started sweating. My tongue stuck to the roof of mouth after ten minutes and my knees ached by mile four.

Somehow, I made it back to the parking lot, which I found almost empty. I unlocked the car and collapsed inside. The water was hot, but perfect for my parched tongue. After twenty minutes, when my heartbeat returned to normal, I drove away with a sense of satisfaction mixed with severe knee pain.

I stopped at the local running store to buy new shoes for my adventure.

“Ma’am,” said the owner as he looked at my feet, “I’m afraid those tennis shoes are so worn out, you might as well run in your flip flops!”  

 I left the store with a new pair of running shoes, a water belt, and running shorts with a key pocket. Two days later I started an arduous training process that pushed my body and my mind. 

The challenge reminded me of our journey of life. The writer of Hebrews says, “And let us run with perseverance the race marked our for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus…”.

Life is a race, and Jesus is our finish line. Just as a marathon requires different types of training exercises, life offers different kinds of trials.

 Some days, life seems to flow effortlessly, like strolling through a garden in bloom on a breezy afternoon. Long distance training days calls for running at a slower pace for longer distances which makes it and easy to admire the view along the way.

Other times problems arise that alter our lives for a while–an expensive car repair, a fight with a child or spouse, a visit to the ER. This resembles tempo training, which requires running a bit faster than our comfort level. It’s hard to keep up the pace, but with a little extra effort, it can be accomplished.

Finally, there are moments when we receive news that changes our life forever. The death of a loved one, a terminal medical diagnosis, a layoff notice, the divorce papers, or an arrest of a child.

We feel like the wind has been knocked out of us and can hardly breathe. This is like sprint training, when we have to run faster than what we think possible, all the way to the end. We dig deep for extra strength and raise our heads to focus on the finish line.

Unlike a race we run alone, Jesus offers to run the race of life with us. He leads us, walks next to us, holds our hand, and even carries us through the rocky parts or the steep hills. 

The day of the race, I arrived at 6:00 AM, still dark and cold. Runners of all ages packed the streets.

“What am I doing? I’m not ready for this! Where’s a bathroom?”

Doubt and fear plagued my mind. Chills invaded my body. My legs acted like two blocks cemented on the street. The starting gun startled me out of my stillness and pushed me out on the streets lined with fans holding up signs and cheering the runners on. Many passed me, but I focused on my goal. 

Two and a half hours later, I spotted the finish line. Tears streamed down my face, making it hard to breath.

I crossed the black line painted on the street to a cheering crowd that included my family and the sound of my name through the speakers.

I wanted to cry, laugh, and collapse on the ground, all at the same time. 

I didn’t set any records, but I reached a goal I never thought possible-I ran 13.1miles. I didn’t win first place, but I felt like a winner. And I learned that anything is possible for those who believe, and I have a shiny medal to prove it.