Mile 1

When I was in grade school, twice a year it was understood that the Gods of Gym required us to Run The Mile. I hated The Mile. Everyone I knew hated The Mile. [Remember, Becky=Nerd. Nerd=Nerdy Friends. The rule here is that nerds suck at sports.] The only people who didn't were the guys and girls on the track/x-country teams, who would show off by crossing the finish line in 6 and a half minutes, then ask if they could run it again. I hated them, too. To me, it seemed like the longest distance in the world. Throughout my adolescence, I rode horses, swam competitively, and took dance classes. None of these athletic endeavors required running, and I found The Mile not only painful, but horrifically embarassing as well. I don't believe I ever finished in anything less than 13 minutes in the 6 or so years I was forced to run it. The end of the run would find me with my head between my legs, ears hurting, lungs hurting, with a stitch in my side that made me want to cry. I didn't WANT to be the last person without a thyroid problem across the finish, it just happened that way.

There was one strange interaction, however, quickly forgotten at the time, that has somehow stayed with me ever since. My memory is a little fuzzy as to whether this happened in middle school or high school, or even what point in the torture it occurred, but I remember the conversation as clear as day. One of the gym coaches - the cross-country coach - approached me and asked me if I'd ever considered being on the team. She told me I had great form for a runner, and that I should really consider it. Knowing full well the extent of my land-speed record (and assuming that she didn't), I tried not to laugh and told her I'd think about it, shook my head, and jogged (I use the term loosely) away. Afterward, I told my other 13-minute friends the story, we had a good laugh, and life went on.

Cut to 10 (or maybe more) years later. I think about this conversation every single time I run through my neighborhood, pounding the pavement and huffing away for a half mile, one, two, and sometimes three. I think about it every time I start to get tired during my run, and every time I feel a surge of energy to go a few more steps. I think about it when my knee starts to cramp, when I know I'll be home icing my injury for the next week. I remember it every time I start to plan for the 9-mile Boilermaker in July.

I don't think I ever had another conversation with that particular gym coach. She didn't know me, I didn't know her, and we were destined to remain strangers. Yet she saw something in me that it took me over 10 years to figure out about myself. It's poignant to think that there are complete strangers out there who can see things about you that you never even knew existed. That sometimes the mirror we hold up to ourselves is so very cloudy in comparison to the window we keep clean for others.

My miles aren't a whole lot faster than they were back then, but I run every single step of every one. I don't get stiches in my side, and that first mile always goes too fast. I love it even when it hurts, and I feel nothing but pride in something that once caused me only shame. I'll never be a true athlete, but that stranger turned out to be completely right; I have the form for running.