Foot Racing

I am not coordinated. I came to accept that fact in seventh grade after our star basketball player ran a drill with me. Three players would run up and down the court throwing balls between one another as quickly as they could. My ball handling skills ranked about 2 on a 100 point scale. The only reason I was even on the first string team was because I was awkwardly taller than most girls my age. Anyway, we ran the disastrous drill during one of the first team practices. Morgan, star basketball player, threw me the ball first. I didn't catch it. Instead it bounced off my ankle causing me to lose my balance and plummet face first on the ever comfortable gym floor. Pretending the newly acquired floor burns weren't causing my not so inner wimpy self to run into the locker room and bawl my eyes out, I got up and kept running for the second pass. The second pass sailed past me as my arms reached helplessly out for it milliseconds too slow. Luckily, the assistant coach on the sidelines with his lightening fast reflexes and desire to relive the 1960 b-ball glory years of his youth caught it for me and tossed it to the other player. Despite the head injury incurred on the third pass, I unfortunately remember it quite vividly. The ball zoomed eagerly from Morgan's hands straight into the left side of my head. I collapsed to the floor clutching my throbbing head. Unfortunately the blood dripping from my left eyebrow didn't block the image of Morgan throwing her hands up in frustration and looking toward our coach. She motioned her hands toward my pathetic figure, her mouth agape in fury, and her body language demanding to know what drugs he was taking when he decided to let me on the team.

I didn't think my athleticism could be disgraced anymore after that moment. I was very sadly incorrect. My dear father hoped to help me to discover some semblance of athletic ability after basketball, volleyball, dance, quidditch, and soccer so miserably failed. He took me to a running trail close to our home and told me to run along side of him for a short mile. After a mere 400 meters of huffing and puffing, I stopped cold and expressed my disdain for our activity. My dad didn't stop for a second. He just motioned his hands forward and kept yelling back to my Olympic worthy self to catch up with him. I only made it another 400 meters before I sat down in the middle of the trail and refused to move. Looking back on that moment, I am amazed I ever became a runner. I guess I must have realized at some point running was my last ditch effort at being involved in something other than athletes.

After boring you with two lengthy paragraphs of my past, I will now arrive at the emphasis of this post. I am currently training for the Utah Valley Marathon. It has been an adventure to say the least. I keep having reoccurring nightmares about the looming race day (June 11th) which are actually pretty entertaining. My most recent one involved me showing up to the starting line in a ten year old's buzz light-year pajamas and giant pink slippers. I also was carrying a 2 gallon packet of Gu (energy gel) on my back. I also happened to witness a murder during the race and was running too slow to get to anyone in time to get help. Essentially, my dreams have tapped into my overwhelming feeling of not being ready. I luckily had the experience this week that I need to boost my confidence. I got fitted for a new pair of Saucony's at the local running shop by an extremely pregnant woman. We got to talking about her due date which she revealed was this upcoming Sunday. She also began telling me her plans to run the Columbus half-marathon on Saturday. As I stared at her bulging belly, I began to remember something I learned a long time ago. Runners are absolutely insane. Have you ever watched a cross-country race? Not a single person is smiling. Even the most talented runners look as if they might be suffering from a mild femur fracture.





Runners are always wanting to go a bit faster and a bit further. One marathon turns into a desire to do fifty. So here is my public thank you to the crazy preggars chick who thinks it is okay to run 13.1 miles hours before her child pops out of her. Thank you for helping me realizing it doesn't matter if I show up to that line in buzz-light year pajamas. Everyone on that line will be just as crazy as I am. :)