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.
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