"What the hell am I doing?" I speculated as I strained my blonde locks into a tight, high pony tail long before the sun peeked through my bedroom blinds. The slumbering sounds of my husband resonated under the crack of the bathroom door as I slipped on my running shoes.
I looked into the mirror at the young woman staring at me, eyes half open, standing in her running tights. She looked ready for something.
Anxious, even.
I have been struggling up hills and wiping dirt from eyes long before I learned to run a mile.
I have been running all of my life.
From people, to people.
From who others said I was, to the woman I knew I was meant to be.
From the easy, comfortable life to the road less traveled, leading to the life most fulfilling.
When I started running, I ran to get away, to lose myself and lose so many others.
Today, I didn't see this girl running from anything, but running towards something, towards herself.
I stared down upon the asphalt, my eyes skimming the chalk writing.
50k start line.
I looked to my right, a woman with legs as long as my entire frame was adjusting her fancy running glasses and bouncing.
She seemed friendly enough as she talked of personal bests and a pace that made me and my partner's eyes widen at one another.
I was running.
There was no crowd support here.
I had wanted it that way.
I had chosen a small race intentionally with a small town course.
No bells, whistles, flimsy signs or faces yelling words of encouragement.
Just me.
Just a few straggling runners I didn't know and a hill long as hell.
Ten laps of 3.1 miles meant I would cover this hill, totaling 3/4 a mile long...ten. times.
My partner let out a groan as we approached it's base.
I trudged with my head down, trying my best not to focus on the struggling runners ahead.
I began to reflect on my training, my running career.
Almost four years ago I was training for my first race; a 10K.
Here I was, running 31 miles.
Running had taught me to push through all flavors of pain.
It taught me to keep moving when my dad had cancer.
It taught me to keep moving when I left my ex-husband.
It taught me to keep moving when I moved 200 miles from home.
It taught me to keep moving when I found myself alone in this new place, friendless.
It taught me to keep moving when the scale tried to tell me how valuable I was.
"You know what? This hill is for everyone who I needed most but didn't stick around. You're missing out on the best part of me now and I feel sorry for you."
"You know what? This hill is for the years of eating disorders and self hatred. I conquered you."
"You know what? This hill is for the substance that was more important than me. I left you behind."
"You know what? This hill is for cancer. You suck. We conquered you too.
"You know what? This hill is for every whisper spoken from a pew. I conquered you."
"You know what? This hill is for my three boys. I will endure any struggle to love you and protect you."
"You know what? This hill is for me. This run is for me. I'm not running away, I'm running towards."
My Ultra Marathon was a lover's quarrel.
It was intimate, painful, yet impossible to forget.
There is no denying the early mornings of quietly treading down the hallway before sunrise in my running shoes, attempting not to wake sleeping little ones.
There is no denying the declining of Friday night invitations to parties.
There is no denying the ache in your legs or the cold air burning your lungs.
There is no denying the taping, stretching, lifting, the dirty pile of sports bras looming in your bathroom floor.
Yet, it is a beautiful argument of who you are and who you are capable of being.
I believe when you push yourself past the limits of the average, you really do find parts about yourself to be quite extraordinary.
I find my stature to be small, but my soul is tall.
As tall as the bouncing woman at the start line. That tall.
My sorry attempts at starting "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" didn't get me through it.
The brand of my shoes didn't get me through it.
No running mantra, slap on the back or other person can get you through it.
Only you can.
Once I passed the regular marathon mark, I threw my hands up in the air, let out a squeal, possibly skipped and carried on.
Running and I have seen it, been through it and conquered it all.
Today was no different.
My husband clapped and counted down the laps as we shuffled on the gravel and eyed others crossing their finish lines.
The last few laps I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel.
Emotions were like fireflies in the summer night;
captivating, yet difficult to capture.
My eyes saw the grass slope I was to jump up to reach the green inflatable finish line.
Tears swelled.
I was a conquerer.
I had finally taken an emotion captive as I sprinted towards my husband attempting to capture unflattering photos.
What was that emotion?
That, you'll have to find out for yourself some day.
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