fear of running

I'm scared to run. I'm scared to keep running. I'm scared to keep putting my feet one in front of the other until I reach my goal. I'm terrified that I'll never run more than a couple of miles at once, fearful I will never wear a race bib because I won't be able to finish. I'm scared that I'll be embarrassed that I made so public a goal - to myself and to all of you - that I'd run a half marathon this year. I'm scared I'm going to fail.

So I stop running. 

I put on my running shoes most days of the week, and I go out, and I hit the pavement or the trail, and I hit it hard. I run hills, and it's really hard, and my lungs are probably going to collapse, and I'm certain I'll be found dying on the roadside, but most days I still lace my running shoes, and I hit the road. I run 2 miles. I run 3 miles. But never more. I stop.

Once, I ran 3.5 miles. Back in January going into February, I hit the day on my training plan that asked me to run 4. I laced up my shoes, and tightened my ponytail, and within half a mile, I was so exhausted, for no reason that made physical sense to me. I felt paralyzed. So I walked the rest of a mile and called it a day. I didn't run again for a month.

I'm back up to 3 miles now - I got there in a few weeks, and it's not so hard for me, except for the hills - those will never be easy; I don't want them to be easy. I want to feel the pain, feel the burn, and feel the rush when I reach the top and hit my stride on the way down. I feel that way - excited by the challenge of hills, so why can't I feel that way about distance?

I'm scared 3 miles is my wall, my limit, my pinnacle, and that I will never get beyond it. In my mind, 3 miles is a lot, it's crazy - I ran three miles! I didn't grow up around very active, athletic people. I didn't have a friend who was a distance runner until I was, what? 24, I think. She ran a half marathon, and I cheered her on, and it was inspirational, and she was incredible. At the time, I ran a mile a day to try to get fit. I thought that was impressive!

Since I've moved to D.C., I'm surrounded by distance runners, triathletes, Ironman finishers. Every one of them amazes me. I think every distance runner is superhuman, because it's a superhuman feat to put your feet one in front of the other at the pace they do for 6 miles. 10 miles. 13.1 miles. 26.2 miles.

I want to meet my goal of running a half marathon this year. I know that I'm physically capable of it. But I'm scared to fail, scared that I'm wrong, that I don't have it in me, that my body can't physically handle it, that I'll pass out on the course, not make it to the finish line, finish past the allotted time.

I'm scared to run.

Where are you on your 2013 goals? 

sugarloaf mountain northern peaks trail (blue)

I've been thinking about the woods behind my childhood home. Newnan, Georgia is one of the biggest metro-Atlanta suburban areas now. When my family moved there, way back in 1990, it wasn't like that. It was downright rural then. My subdivision was sprawling, the nooks and crannies filled with uncharted nature that seemed endless to a kid. They were eventually filled in with houses, and the woods became short paths to visit our neighbors. But for most of my childhood, the woods were the woods, and there was a lot of them back there. 

Directly behind my house, the woods went back and back and back for as far as I could imagine. I explored them by day, and tip-toed a step or two into them at night, before running back to my house scared. My brother and I, and my friends and I, bushwhacked through them, creating our own trails we remembered by the broken limbs and eventually well worn paths. I learned to suck on honeysuckle and spot poison ivy, and we built forts out of tree covers and played hide-and-seek and foxes and hounds in the bush.

When we first moved to Newnan, we lived with my uncle down the street for a few months, while my mom closed on what would be our home. My Uncle Mike lived only 7 houses down from where we would live for the next 15 years, but the woods behind his house were a whole other world. His woods were even vaster. There were rolling hills and large rocks that seemed like boulders to my little eyes. There was a stream that ran who knows how far. My brother trekked the length of it more than once. I thought he was the strongest and bravest. I was maybe six or seven years old.

I jumped from rock to rock, and in the creek played leap frog on the pebbles, trying to never let my toes get wet, else I lose the game. I balanced with my arms outstretched on fallen trees, walking on my tip-toes the entire length of them, pretending I was an Olympic gymnast like Shannon Miller. 

In 1993, Atlanta had a blizzard - the "storm of the century!" Really, they called it that. Even wikipedia remembers. I'd never seen snow, and my mom woke my brother and me up early, so so early, as the wet, white stuff came down in sheets. It covered our lawn, probably only inches at most, but I swear it went up to our waists. 

Of course, all of metro Atlanta shut down, and that meant no school. We bundled up as best we could - there's a shortage of winter coats when you live way down south, and we convinced our black lab puppy, Shadow, to come play with us. We threw the first snowballs of our lives, wrestled in it, sledded down the sloping hills of our neighborhood streets, and tried to find the trails we'd blazed in the in the snow-covered woods. 

All of these childhood memories came flooding back to me this weekend when Zander, Theo and I went hiking at Sugarloaf Mountain in Dickerson, Maryland. It was a quiet day, cold and icy. The first quarter mile of the Northern Peaks blue-blazed trail we attempted was iced over and treacherous. Fortunately the trail cleared up after that, the snow provided a beautiful back drop, and we were able to finish the 5.5 mile loop. 

After passing the White Rock Overlook, about 2.5 miles in, we descended until we passed a unique tree formation. One tree arched over like the top of a swing set, and another intersected it like a jungle gym. I had to stop (for the millionth time) to take a picture. Growing up in the woods hit me so hard, and I had this thought that if I were ever a playground contractor, visionary - this is what would inspire me. Then I thought I wouldn't have a job for very long, because I'd tell kids to come play in the woods. They're the real playgrounds. 

Don't you want to swing from that arch, and climb and jump off and hang upside down? 

At White Rock Overlook, the view itself didn't take my breath away - it was the little red farmhouse, so proud and distinct in the distance, that did it. What is it about that iconic image that takes me somewhere I've never been, every single time I see it?

 

Hiking makes me feel young again, like we can all stop time for those miles we're breathing hard and sweating in the woods, convincing ourselves we can make it to the top. The peaks I summit and the trails I meander are longer and higher and tougher than the woods behind my childhood house, but my love for them started at 365 Freestone Drive, in the subdivision without a sign. You can spot it by the three giant boulders on the right-hand side of the road. 

Want to hike Sugarloaf? I recommend the blue-blazed Northern Peaks Trail. It's a less-traversed trail on the busy mountain. You'll be stunned by the green-moss covered rocks, giant oaks that shade your way, and views that include a certain little red farmhouse. Read more about it on LocalHikes.

oh hey, PS - I ran about a mile of this trail, too, just like I did after Old Rag. This is becoming a habit. I'm thinking of trying out trail running. Do you have any suggestions on routes, running trails, shoes, etc? Want to run with me? I'd love to hear from you!