One week from today, I will be participating in my first half-marathon...which okay, obviously isn't the same as a full marathon, but it's a good start! September 1 is the big day. The moment of truth.
A year ago, on September 1, I visited Yellowstone National Park with my sister and a friend. We went to see Yellowstone Falls and hiked down to the brink of the lower falls so we could stand pretty much directly on the water. It was the most majestic, beautiful thing I had ever seen. I think I knew peace standing there, staring down the Yellowstone River, listening to the endless roar of a million voices, staring out over the permanent rainbows at the base of the falls, the grass so green against stark rock. In that space, I saw the most destructive, terrifying forces collude to create the most devastatingly beautiful scenery. It was life and death, a testament to nature's true power, and I still long to return to that spot.
Now if you've never been there, you don't know what it takes to get down to that platform. It's a descent of 600 feet over a half mile...which means the way back up is climb of 600 feet over 1/2 mile. The trip down wasn't so bad for me...but the trip up?
The trip up was terrible. It was painful, difficult, and left me practically in tears. I was embarrassed and I was terrified I would die of a heart attack or a stroke right there on the side of the mountain. I was so fucking angry at the situation, at myself. My own body was getting in my way...was ruining the moment of true zen I experienced on the platform over the falls.
I made it to the top without dying, obviously. But as I stood there, gasping for breath, eyes stinging with tears, fury in my heart, I vowed that this was never going to happen to me again. I was never going to be stopped by my own body. I was never going to stand in my own way again.
And now I'm facing an even bigger mountain.
The Salt Lake Half Marathon does not take place in Salt Lake Valley, rather it's in the mountains to the east. It starts at Mountain Dell golf course, goes up three miles and then descends into Emigration Canyon, then into the Salt Lake Valley, passing the zoo and the This is the Place Monument/Park to end at Research Park on the east bench.
I've never completed 13 miles in one attempt before, but the distance itself doesn't seem impossible. The human body is capable of covering 13 miles of ground, and I've been working really hard in the gym (as detailed in my previous diary about obesity). What scared me, what terrified me down to my core, was the first three miles. It's also an elevation change of 700 feet, but obviously the incline isn't so severe since it's over the distance of three miles rather than 2,700 feet.
I called my friend last week and told him I changed my mind. I couldn't compete in the marathon. I'd never be able to finish it...I'd never even be able to make it over the first mountain! I would die before I reached the summit, and that didn't seem a very good use of my time. What use would I be dead? I should just do the 5k walk/run on Sept 6...that's just over 3 miles and I can do 3 miles practically in my sleep! The argument seemed sound to me. "I will do this instead of that because it'll be much easier and I don't wish to die."
He wasn't impressed with my decision to take the easy way out. He saw no value in it, and he told me that I'm better than that. He said, "I'm trying to be a good friend by supporting your desire to do this marathon. If you don't want to do it, then tell me now and I'll drop the whole thing. But also think about what you're saying you do want to do."
What would I be saying?
"I want to let fear control my life."
"I want to always take the path of least resistance."
"I want to make empty promises to myself (and my friends)."
"I want to never push myself past my limits."
"I want to be the same as I've always been."
"I want to concede...I want to cede my power over to the people who are telling me I can't do this."
And those people do exist. People who love me, who want to support me...they can't quite bring themselves to believe this is something I can do. They warn me that this is dangerous, that I could either die or wish for death on the 13 mile trek. They think I'm not ready for this, that I should wait until the spring, that setting and keeping a goal doesn't matter, isn't that important when that goal can simply be moved and nobody would be the wiser.
I would know, though. I would always know. There would always be the black stain of failure on my soul because I made a decision, committed myself to a path of action, and then let fear sway me from my goal.
Instead of quitting, I went out the next morning and drove to the summit of the mountain that seemed so impossible. I put on my favorite podcast, Penn's Sunday School, and I walked two miles down the mountain, turned around, and walked back up. Much to my surprise, it wasn't that bad! Some parts were even fun.
The next morning, I went back. I parked at the bottom of the mountain, where the actual race will start, and set my sites at the summit. I made it to the top in my standard time (I'm not very fast at all, but I can keep up a steady pace) and then turned around and went back to my car. Of course, this time by the time I made it to the bottom I had HUGE blisters on my feet. Absolutely gigantic and painful. I decided new shoes and new socks were in order...cajoled my buddy into helping me pop the blisters and care for them...took some extra protein, did some extra stretches, swam some extra laps in the pool.
I kept expecting the pain to start. I waited for the stiffness in my thighs, the sharp shooting pains in my heels, the cramps in my calves. My feet were very sore and tender for a few days (Monday I couldn't even wear shoes because the blisters were still rather full of fluid) but the pain I expected...the pain I had always lived with...never came.
Yesterday I went on a six mile hike. This time, I only had one big terrible blister, and I'm not limping around my house or wishing for death. I was also hiking up a very narrow, rocky trail. It went from 6000 feet to 7400 feet at the summit, though I turned around before the summit...it was late in the afternoon and I had no desire to be walking in the dark (going to the summit would have tacked on another full hour to the whole trip). Especially since nobody knew I was up there (and nobody would have ever thought to look for me on that trail. Not the smartest thing ever, but at least I wasn't attacked by a bear!).
Tomorrow I intend to do ten miles along the marathon route, going up and over the Summit of Doom twice.
I'm still a big scared. The fact is, I still don't know if I can do thirteen miles in one go. Will I have to go up to the University Medical Center ER after I'm done for fluid replacement and muscle relaxants? Will I collapse at the ten mile mark, crying, my feet burning with friction and pain, my muscles spasming? Will it be so hot that I get sunstroke? Will I come in 401st out of 400? Will the naysayers be proven right? Am I insane?
I don't know the answers to those questions. But I do know I've reached the top of that mountain twice. And I know I can and will do it again. Deep in my heart, I feel like I can do this. Maybe it's not the greatest accomplishment in the history of the world, but I do know that nobody has volunteered to sign up with me. People who weigh less than me, people who are more active, people who imply I can't do it...they're not paying their entry fee and facing down that mountain. I'll walk this alone, I'll cross that finish line alone, and I'll no longer be standing in my own way.