Читать книгу Why I Run: The Remarkable Journey of the Ordinary Runner - Mark MDiv Sutcliffe - Страница 7

iRun because it helps me raise money for charities Frank Fotia, Ontario

It’s hard to remember exactly where and when it began, this crazy little obsession of mine.

How does a bit of running to stay in shape turn into a half-marathon, then a marathon, then an utterly non-negotiable part of every week, a bigger priority than sleeping or reading?

What was the turning point? When did I become a runner, rather than simply someone who ran? When did it go from an activity to being part of the definition of who I am? I ride my bike, I swim, I walk, I play other sports. Still, I don’t call myself a cyclist or a walker or a ballplayer. But I am a runner.

In 2003, when running was still just one piece of my fitness regimen, I figured I would try doing a half-marathon. It would give me something to train for and it would be a test of endurance. Lots of other people were doing it, so why couldn’t I?

For a novice runner who is attempting a new distance, whether it’s 5k or a marathon or anything in between, there is only one question: Will I finish? I remember having breakfast with a friend when I was approaching the end of my training. One day we would run together four times a week and finish races side by side. But at this time, I was a rookie and he was an Ironman, which is why we were meeting for breakfast instead of going for a run.

Still uncertain about whether I could run 21.1 kilometres, I told him about my recent 18k training run.

“You’ve got it!” he said enthusiastically. I didn’t believe him.

But on race day, I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and I ran farther than I ever thought possible.

Now I was a guy who had done a half-marathon. But I still wasn’t a runner.

In fact, that fall I walked the Terry Fox Run. It wasn’t that I couldn’t have run the distance, but I was with someone who wanted to walk, so I did too. Simple as that. Today, however, I would be wishing that person luck and meeting her at the finish line.

The next spring, I toyed with training for the marathon, or as I called it then, from the perspective of a half-marathoner, the “full” marathon.

Even though thousands of other people had done it, I wasn’t sure I could. I finally convinced myself to join a marathon clinic by settling on a giant exit clause: I could train for the marathon and switch to the half if I found it too hard.

Over the next four months, I soaked up every aspect of the marathon training experience. I did every prescribed run in the training program except for maybe two short runs I skipped because of a cold. I attended almost every talk at the clinic.

It was a time in my life when I need a fixation, a routine, a diversion. My sister had died only eighteen months earlier and my father was terminally ill.

And so I did one more thing that made me slightly more committed to the marathon: I turned my run into a fundraiser for the Ottawa Hospital, where both of them had received treatment. And before I knew it, I had raised almost $10,000. Backing out wasn’t going to be as easy as I originally planned.

I was encouraged by my training, but I still had my doubts. What if I hit this wall that I had heard about? What were the last ten kilometres, the ones we didn’t do in training, going to be like? What if I just had to stop? What if no matter how much I trained, I just didn’t have a marathon in me?

The clinic instructors provided a helpful talk about motivation. They told me to prepare for the point when the race would get incredibly hard, when my body would tell me to quit and I would have to keep going. Think now about what you will think about then, they said.

I came up with a plan: I would remember my sister, my dad and all the money I had raised in their names. That should be enough to keep me going.

“Dianne, Dad, money.” That’s what I was going to repeat to myself every three steps when I needed that push. “Dianne, Dad, money.”

At the start line, I reassured myself with the promise that tens of thousands of other runners have made before their first marathon: You only have to do this once. Check it off the list and you never have to run this far again for the rest of your life.

I remember the exact point when the race really began. It was on a long slow uphill stretch after a steep climb over a bridge at 32k.

I stopped running and walked for a hundred metres. “Dianne, Dad, money,” I thought to myself. Then I started running again.

I’d like to say that surge of inspiration was enough to carry me to the finish, that I felt like angels wings were lifting me off the ground, but I walked several more times. And at one point, I even rationalized stopping completely. What – is everyone going to ask for their money back, I thought. It’s going to a hospital, for crying out loud. It’s not going to me.

But I put those thoughts out of my mind and pushed on to 40k. My mom and aunt were standing on a bridge holding a sign with my name on it. That spurred me on for a few hundred metres.

Dianne, Dad, money.

I don’t remember much about the final stretch or crossing the finish line, except that I almost started crying. It was more relief than jubilation.

Just after the finish I ran into a friend who had completed many marathons. “Congratulations,” he said. “By the way, now is not the time to decide if you want to run another marathon.”

I smiled and didn’t respond. But I think I’d already decided.

I was back again the next year and the year after that.

I don’t know exactly when I became totally hooked on this foolish passion, when running became part of me instead of me simply being part of a race.

But I like to think the turning point was in those final few kilometres of my first marathon, when I drew on the inspiration of my sister and father and the dozens of people who believed enough in me to contribute a few dollars toward my race.

Somewhere on the long, slow uphill climb, I stopped doubting I could finish and started believing I was a runner.