Adversity and Redemption

When it comes to challenge and adversity, I’m not a huge fan.  I take seriously the comforts of time and space, knowing they are privileges of culture, class, and education.  Plus not having kids.  

Perhaps running races doesn’t seem like the best way to avoid adversity, but it’s possible to make it feel less challenging.  One is by preparation.  In August, once the gasping humidity of July was over, 30 mile weeks became 40 mile weeks, hills were trotted up instead of walked, and occasional trips to the high school track started happening.  But preparation is not just about training.  It’s about carefully choosing clothes the night before a big race, bringing alternative shirts and socks in case conditions should change, and snacks and drinks are packed for before, during, and after the race.  For longer races, a lot of thought goes into what to wear and what to eat and drink.  Not doing so leads to chafing and/or bonking, the twin banes of distance running.    

The Surftown half-marathon seemed like a good time to open up the ol’ dusty box of adversity I had been avoiding.  I imagined feeling the pain and drain and still going, even up dastardly Watch Hill at mile 10, trucking on through the finish line, hot on the heels of the two-hour pace group.  It was time, I decided, to move away from safety and comfort and to learn that it wasn’t really pain I was feeling, merely sensation.  Yoga teachers advise you to take a pose until you feel sensation, but not pain.  Running coaches have the opposite approach, saying things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”  I figured I would take the middle path, and show myself that it wasn’t really pain I was feeling, merely sensation.  That is, unless I broke an ankle or something.  “Heh, heh,” I thought. “I’ll show myself what I can do.  Think how much energy and power I’ll have, even if I’m only able to crawl back to the car!”

Alas, the universe had something else in mind.  It saw my preparation for adversity and laughed loud and long. 

We got to Misquamicut Beach 45 minutes early, which seemed pretty good until I saw the huge, rapidly filling parking lot after dropping off Nels to go find his pace group buddies.  As I walked to the check-in tent, I thought about getting in the bathroom line right away, as we had just spent an hour in the car after two coffees and plenty of water.  I decided no, better to get my race bib first.  Mistake #1.  I could not get my bib, because I didn’t bring a photo ID.  The woman resisted my pleas, which rapidly turned to incredulity mixed with fury.  I explained about being parked a mile away.  I also said that nobody would want to run as me.  She would have nothing of it. 

I had to run a mile back to the car, and then a mile back, just to get my bleeping driver’s license so I could wear a bleeping bib to run a bleeping 13.1 mile race.  I tore back through the fall festival, ignoring the pygmy goats, warning all incoming runners that they would need their ID’s.  I zipped through the parking lot, dodging cars and runners who had obviously known that running a race was like boarding an airplane.  What was next, searching my New Balance capris for sharp objects?

I ran all the way back, license in hand, finally getting the bib and checking my stuff into baggage claim.  Luckily, I still had a water bottle and a gel tucked into my capris.  I got into the 20 person long port-a-pottie line, ready to take my gel and finish my water, because by now I really had to pee, and it was 10 minutes before the race was to begin.  The announcer’s calls were more and more urgent—“Stay out of the road! Five minutes to race time!” and I started to panic a bit, along with my fellow runners.  I reached back to take my gel, and it was gone.  Are you bleeping kidding me?  So I was about to start the race late, having already run two miles, with no nutrition besides one bar and one banana over an hour ago.  Clearly, the two-hour pace group would be running without me. 

Those first five miles, I was pissed at everyone and everything.  They were out of Gatorade at the first water stop.  The roads were narrow, bumpy, and crowded as people jockeyed for space.  A woman with long arms connected by giant elbows was swinging them back and forth like she was sawing something.  A couple with headphones ran side by side, blocking anybody who wanted to go around them.  Back in kindergarten, I learned about the value of giving people space due to a blond-haired girl named Jenny who happened to be a biter.  These folks had obviously not met her.

I felt terrible about how I dealt with adversity—being mean to the volunteer, cussing in front of Nels’ pace group, complaining in the bathroom line.  Even when I thought I was ready for adversity, because it came in an unexpected package, I handled it poorly.  Then I began noticing what was going on around me.  The volunteers and spectators were supportive.  The sky was blue, breeze light, sun warm.  The runners were cheerful, respectful, and nobody tried to bite me. 

My regular running mantras did not suffice in this situation, so I searched for a new one, realizing how grateful I was to have the ability and desire to run this race, even if I was clearly not going to meet my goal of two hours.  My mantra became “thank you.”  The universe was not testing me out of nastiness or spite, after all.  Instead, it was offering me the opportunity to appreciate what I can do when I don’t obsess about imaginary obstacles. 

And that’s what adversity is.  Imaginary.  My attempt to gird my loins was based on the faulty assumption that I could control what happens, an assumption I make often.  I have other imaginary adversaries and adversities, mostly related to my ego, who likes everything to be predictable and according to its design.  There’s a bigger design out there, though.  Understanding and accepting that, especially when there is pain or fear involved, is not easy, but I hope today’s 2:06:59 run, smiling for 8.1 miles of it, will get me a little closer.