Sprint to the Finish: The Race for Life

I made a rather rash decision about a month ago to run a 5K fundraising for cancer race in Oxford. I’ve never been much of a runner, but a friend mentioned the workout plan called “Couch to 5K,” a nine-week training plan geared towards people who are out of shape. With only four or five weeks to train, I decided to concentrate the work-out plan, skipping some of the beginning steps, and to get started right away, 3 days per week.

It was a bit rocky at first. Having to get out of bed in the morning is hard enough, let alone rolling out of the bed into tennis shoes to begin a self-imposed torture regime. I was able to run 13ish minutes before I started the plan. It suggested alternating a walk/run pattern (i.e. walk 5 minutes, run 8 minutes, walk 5 minutes, run 8 minutes), gradually increasingly to running 20 minutes, all the way up to 30 minutes.

I’ve always been jealous of people who can run, with just the sound of their footsteps on the road, feeling invigorated, clearing their mind to think. My style is more along the lines of breathing heavily, plodding along, and battling my mind every step of the way to stop. But it began to get easier, slowly but surely. Well, the workout became increasingly more difficult, but I was able to control my weak body a little better, to quiet it into the realization that I was sticking it out.

The runs alternated between being terrible (minute 3 of 25, feeling exhausted, legs of lead) and wonderful (minute 25 of 30 feeling as though I could run on and on). Running also provided me with a great excuse to explore the parks of Oxford, which have beautiful paths, some winding along the river and others shady and tree-lined. Summer here has been much cooler than back home, too, typically in the 60s, the perfect running temperature.

I would pray as I began some of the more difficult runs for God to help me persevere and make it to the end of the run. I longed for encouragement and to stop seeing the super-in-shape people everywhere, making me feel slow and as though I was struggling alone. And then my friends would tell me they were proud of me; I came across this older homeless man in the Meadow, who clapped every time I passed and told me I was doing great; and a girl began running at the same time as me who looked really upset every time, whose face seemed to convey the discomfort I was feeling (if that isn't too cruel to say). I felt like God was blessing me each step of the way somehow, providing me with signs to say, yes, you can do it. I won't let you fall.

Today was the big day—time to run the actual Race for Life in University Parks. My friend and I headed to the park, pinning our numbers on our shirts. I felt grumpy and questioned if I would be able to run the whole thing. We arrived and found 7,000 participants in all—a staggering number. They divided us into walkers, joggers, and runners. My friend and I separated so we could each run at our own paces, following the herd towards the start line.

The path was narrow and a good number—the majority—of the “joggers” decided to walk and obstruct the path. It was so difficult to pass whole groups of people, running off the path onto the bumpy grass ridden with holes again and again, trying to duck under branches and avoid having to stop running. The run was also, however, incredibly beautiful. I felt strong and kept thinking, “Yes, this is what I’ve been training for.” When I ran past the Radcliffe Camera, I thought how quintessentially Oxfordian the journey to the finish line had been. How the run was just one little measure of the progress I’ve made this year, how I’ve grown and challenged myself.

As I continued to wade through the walkers and joggers, I saw the “500 M to go” sign and knew the end was near. My headphones slipped out of my ears, I was covered in sweat, and I attempted to sprint to the finish. It was rather difficult, being still inhibited by the walkers blocking the path, but I got closer and closer and then I was there. Crossed it. Was Done.

I’d completed a rather simple task. But for me it meant something. It represented finishing my 36th and final essay at Oxford last Friday. It represented the challenge of starting my life over abroad. Of fighting my own chronic, though not terminal, disease. It signified that despite the obstructions, the discouragement, the hiccups, I made it. A small victory but one nonetheless worth fighting for.

Falling in Love with Oxford

Summer camp is almost over and everyone is starting to filter out; instead of parents picking kids up, they’re going independently to board the buses to London, to make the hop across the pond and return to the States.

I want it to go on and on, like the broken record that I am. And in this beautiful, perfect, endlessly frustrating way, life keeps getting better and better, making it even harder to leave. My denial phase is wavering with the reality of goodbyes. Just over two weeks until England and I make an emotional parting—for who knows how long.

I’ve been to formal halls, punting, around more colleges, out to eat, to plays, to pubs, to libraries, on day trips, to run in the meadow. I feel...like my life is somehow out of control, with just a few more essays standing between me and being a senior (panic) and between me and returning to the States (more panic). This summer already has a ridiculous number of things for me to look forward to, but I can’t escape the fact that my response to leaving will be very deep, profound sadness. I wish I could leap over that mourning process of leaving and just smoothly transition from good to more good.

But that wouldn’t be real. And whatever this year is, it has been undeniably, beautifully real. The one unavoidable fact of my life is that I will soon be a fully independent adult; leaving is inextricably wound up with returning to Georgetown and confronting numerous important decisions.

Some of my friends from Georgetown visited Oxford this week, and witnessing their joy as they saw the town and colleges, and tried cream tea and punting, for the first time made me realize the novelty of it all hasn’t worn off for me. Will it ever? Doubtful. I was told I was glowing, that I clearly love Oxford and this year has been good for me.

This experience of a lifetime will haunt my lifetime. I’ve fallen in love with Oxford. And I can’t fall out of love because I have to leave. I just want to hold Oxford tighter and tighter. Close my eyes and deny the possibility of parting. Feel the sensation of being one with this place so strongly that I will vividly feel that sensation again and again, even thousands of miles away, as a comfort in my withdrawal.

I keep looking around and thinking, oh, I miss this place, drinking cider, walking down this path, being with this person, riding trains across the British countryside—on and on the list goes. And I forcibly have to remind myself, you’re not gone yet. You’re here. For just a bit more. Don’t disengage, don’t mourn pre-emptively. And yet there are also these moments of transcendence, which help with my sadness. When I fully realize how special whatever I’m doing is and that makes it more poignantly beautiful than it ever could have been independent of a melancholy undertone.

At evensong tonight, one of the intercessions was for those who will soon leave Oxford for good. My heart leapt, warring between “that’s me!” and “never!” The prayer asked that those who leave to begin a life elsewhere will prosper and live by God’s will, to the ends of the earth, to the end of their days. And I found comfort.

I asked a friend who leaves this week what all she wants to do for one last time before she goes. She responded that she feels pretty good and there’s nothing pressing, and she’s starting to accept that she is in fact leaving. And I thought about the gluttonous thoughts I’ve been having, of how many cream teas I can fit in and favorite sandwiches and glimpses of buildings and visits to places. Just one more, one more, only once more. Let me have one more and it won’t feel like I’m leaving. But her words startled me, in a wonderfully good way. I realized that my life has been chalk-full of goodness this term, and this year generally. That I don’t need to compensate for a lack of experiences because there is no such lack.

If I walked away today, if I were forced to leave summer camp a little early, I would be satisfied—though undeniably torn up about leaving—with the life I have lived here. And that is a beautiful realization.

An End Date that Just Won't Shut Up.

I can’t say I didn’t expect to feel this way. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

I knew that it would be difficult for me to balance that impending date of departure with enjoying my remaining weeks to the fullest. There are constant little last’s and almost last’s and almost-almost last’s. Each one is a pang, causing my smile to waver, taking me out of enjoying the moment to realizing the fleeting nature of the moment.

This last week has been full of ups and downs emotionally, and I’m beginning to feel more and more like a pendulum. The peak of happy, questioning my happiness, swinging into the security of indifference, feeling slightly miserable, then peaking at melodramatic gloom; repeat. The peak of Englishness—countryside rambles, river outings, Pimms, strawberries, a rainy day, a successful attempt at the accent—slipping down into a weird, uncomfortable in-between, only here for a few more weeks, before peaking again at Americaness—envisioning my summer back home. I’m in a constant flux, trying to grasp something definite, like the number of days left, but also attempting to forget the stupid end date and just enjoy what’s left.

Balance. Balance is what I need. An awareness of valuing my last’s and appreciating my experiences, whilst not pressuring myself to feel the weightlessness of being here indefinitely.

The end date is there. Early July. Staring me in the face. Boldly, stoically, unchangeable. Here’s to me acknowledging it.

Would this year even be as wonderful if it went on indefinitely? I think I can safely venture to say that it wouldn’t somehow—even while I’m dreaming that it could. I’ve experienced so many firsts this year, the partner to my lasts. I’ve built a life in England but I’ve known all along that it isn’t a permanent life. Technically it could be eventually, if I decide I want to make it one and return someday. But Oxford won’t wait for me and remain the same. Remain the unique Oxford of my year abroad, filled with “my” people; she will change, evolve, progress with time and become other, different people’s Oxford too.

Most, but definitely not all, of my relationships have remained at a casual level, not as serious as those back home, with the people who’ve known me for three or ten or twenty plus years. Life here hasn’t been as bogged down with serious responsibilities, like a job or a GPA or thoughts of my post-grad future. This year has been a dream, teaching me so much by taking me out of myself, out of my comfort zone, into unchartered territory.

What would this year be like if it could afford to lose its novelty and become more permanent? What would life be like if I were a full-time Oxford undergraduate, reading English?

Those are questions I flirt with but can never really answer. And if I’m completely honest, I don’t think I want the answer. This year has been amazing, for exactly what it is. And I miss Georgetown and can’t imagine losing what experiences I’ve had there already, the future that awaits me back on its campus. Georgetown shaped me and made me ready for Oxford. I think Oxford has also readied me, for the rest of my time at Georgetown and for the real world of adulthood and independence. Precisely for its dreamy quality, its challenging and exhilarating nature, Oxford has made me hungry for more.

Yes, for more of Oxford. But also for more of that adult life that awaits murkily ahead of me. I can’t see it but He certainly can. The limitlessness of my future, that scares me now with its completely undefined nature, also holds a great deal of possibility. I remember, so clearly, feeling that way about Oxford too; and look how blessed, how rich my life here has been.

For now, I will take all the Oxford I can get. I will savor and adore her for what she has given me thus far; but I would never underestimate her in thinking she doesn’t have something more to offer me. One month, after all, is still a significant period of time.