but ourselves.”
Sir Edmund Hillary
Some months ago Mr. V excitedly announced that he had registered us to run a race. “It will be fun!” he said. “We will run every morning and …”
Upon hearing the words “run” and “morning” in the same sentence I started to feel faint and began to teeter on the brink of hyperventilation. You see, I have never considered myself a runner.
My mind immediately took me back to Dixon Jr. High and Miss Roland’s gym class. It is one of those moments forever engraved upon the walls of my mind. I can remember every detail -- the feel of my blue polyester gym shorts; the boy staring at me because he wanted to “be more than friends”; and the sweet sounds of the Doobie Brothers’ What A Fool Believes playing somewhere in the background. It was the day of the mile run and I knew for certain I would surely die before ever reaching the end. And so, I hid behind the big pine tree and watched the other kids run, joining them on the very last lap. I am convinced that Miss Roland’s mind must have been elsewhere that day as she didn’t even notice, and happily called out, “Seven minutes and three seconds!” as I crossed the finish line. That day I joined the prestigious ranks of Presidential Physical Fitness Award hopefuls.
Mr. V’s continued speech pulled me back to the present. “Come on,” he said, “you can do it!” At that moment I had a choice, and as I am a great believer that there are always choices in life, I chose to follow. After all, I have been following this man for almost twenty years and he has never led me astray.
There is much to be said about an early morning run. There is something awe inspiring in how the morning sky suddenly appears, like watercolors blending against the horizon. The air is crisp with a certain stillness that magnifies even the smallest sounds. And in each run there is a sense of accomplishment. What starts as a few steps turns into yards, which eventually become miles. Little by little the daunting task becomes a possibility. It is in moments like this that you realize just how much it means to have someone believe in you.
On July 4th we ran our race – Mr. V. and I, and two of our children. And although I must confess (as I promised him I would) that my nine-year-old crossed the finish line ahead of me, I did finish the race.
I am certain you will never find me among the Tarahumara Indians -- legendary phantom runners of Mexico’s Copper Canyon. After all, my DNA hails from the islands of the South Pacific, and just how many times can you run around one small island? If you look, however, you may see me some mornings running along a ditch bank with Mr. V by my side. And if you ask, you may even find that I am considering my next race, especially since I still have a score to settle with my nine-year-old.
Upon hearing the words “run” and “morning” in the same sentence I started to feel faint and began to teeter on the brink of hyperventilation. You see, I have never considered myself a runner.
My mind immediately took me back to Dixon Jr. High and Miss Roland’s gym class. It is one of those moments forever engraved upon the walls of my mind. I can remember every detail -- the feel of my blue polyester gym shorts; the boy staring at me because he wanted to “be more than friends”; and the sweet sounds of the Doobie Brothers’ What A Fool Believes playing somewhere in the background. It was the day of the mile run and I knew for certain I would surely die before ever reaching the end. And so, I hid behind the big pine tree and watched the other kids run, joining them on the very last lap. I am convinced that Miss Roland’s mind must have been elsewhere that day as she didn’t even notice, and happily called out, “Seven minutes and three seconds!” as I crossed the finish line. That day I joined the prestigious ranks of Presidential Physical Fitness Award hopefuls.
Mr. V’s continued speech pulled me back to the present. “Come on,” he said, “you can do it!” At that moment I had a choice, and as I am a great believer that there are always choices in life, I chose to follow. After all, I have been following this man for almost twenty years and he has never led me astray.
There is much to be said about an early morning run. There is something awe inspiring in how the morning sky suddenly appears, like watercolors blending against the horizon. The air is crisp with a certain stillness that magnifies even the smallest sounds. And in each run there is a sense of accomplishment. What starts as a few steps turns into yards, which eventually become miles. Little by little the daunting task becomes a possibility. It is in moments like this that you realize just how much it means to have someone believe in you.
On July 4th we ran our race – Mr. V. and I, and two of our children. And although I must confess (as I promised him I would) that my nine-year-old crossed the finish line ahead of me, I did finish the race.
I am certain you will never find me among the Tarahumara Indians -- legendary phantom runners of Mexico’s Copper Canyon. After all, my DNA hails from the islands of the South Pacific, and just how many times can you run around one small island? If you look, however, you may see me some mornings running along a ditch bank with Mr. V by my side. And if you ask, you may even find that I am considering my next race, especially since I still have a score to settle with my nine-year-old.
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