Looking through previous backstory entries here, these things tend to start with an introduction that places me in the present moment as far as the story of Natcher and his marvelous Taylor Spatial Frame goes. Since I just finished writing the last of these entries—for anybody wondering, it took a while and was a lot harder than I thought it would be—I'm not sure how much I have to say to preface this one.
Talking about running in the present moment is much more complex than talking about when the frame is coming off, partially because I simply do not know when my restriction on running will be lifted, though from what I've gathered it will be months from now. I spend a solid amount of every day now at track practice and occasionally watch the runners go by. But as far as actually running myself…let's just say I have a checkered history (at best) with running. Very checkered.
RUNNING THE MILE
My first brush with the mile came in second grade. It was one of those lovely Virginia days. Not lovely in the sarcastic sense of "redefining hot and humid" but lovely in the sense of moderate temperatures, no precipitation, clear blue sky. The grass on the football field was nice and green.
The P.E. teachers explained the situation to us. We were going to be running the mile for the first time. Four laps around the football field. We'd be timed.
I can no longer remember what a good time for a second grade student to run the mile is. I do remember that my time was something along the lines of 18 minutes, 36 seconds. I was still going, struggling on my final lap well after the rest of my classmates had gone inside to waiting water and air conditioning.
That was more or less how me running the mile went the first many times. I dropped five minutes the next year but was still the last on the field. I seem to recall that it was another couple years until I ran the mile again. That one was faster, but still took more than ten minutes. I believe there was another mile in seventh grade, between surgery and mono. That one was about twelve minutes.
I think it makes sense to mention here that I have had a deep fascination with running for a long time now. The simplicity of the motion, the lack of equipment required fascinates me. The concept of going faster than a walk, of burning energy, of pounding rhythms strike me as flat-out wonderful. I can remember challenging myself to running-related challenges in the backyard when I was younger—a hundred laps around a minuscule garden (total distance: not very long). According to my parents, I was incredibly active before the bone growths started kicking in and making physical activity harder.
My eighth grade year, 2008-2009, started off fairly simple. The summer had passed without incident. I was going on a year from my last surgery. I believe I was going to physical therapy then, trying to get in better physical condition.
I've been in physical therapy many, many times before at a variety of facilities in and around the Charlottesville area. Often, physical therapy would be to recover from surgery; other times, to improve conditioning and combat whatever new little bone growth-related pain was flaming up.
To make a long story I can't remember short, in the spring of my eighth grade year I was meeting regularly with a physical therapist at ACAC, the athletic club in Charlottesville. His name was John, he had been a thrower in college, he knew how all the machines worked, he was excellent. He was friendly, didn't push me too hard but still made sure I was making progress. While working with him I sort of learned how to play basketball, developed some actual muscles for the first time ever and, most significantly to me, ran a mile in under ten minutes.
You see, ten is an easy number to remember, a clear dividing line. As far as I'm concerned, there are miles above ten minutes and miles below ten minutes. In second grade, I was in awe of those who could run the mile twice as fast as I could. Sub-ten minutes seemed like an achievement I would never gain and the more miles I ran slower than ten, the more I started to believe this.
At some point, I told John about my goal. Before too long, we started training. I'm not going to lie and say there was a lot of training which went into my attempt. But there was some.
The layout of the main area of ACA is fairly simple. In the center, you have the basketball courts. Around the basketball courts you have weightlifting. Above the weights are exercise bikes. Around the entire ensemble is a running track, made of some soft blue substance, twelve laps to the mile.
The first training session for the mile was fairly simple. He jogged, I followed. The pace was, I believe, eight minutes to the mile. I kept up fairly well, felt confident about myself. He reminded me that when I did it for real, the distance would be much farther and I wouldn't have him for pacing.
This was not a development I'd been anticipating.
And yet…one day, not too long after I'd started working towards my goal, my younger brothers ran the mile at school. I liked the concept of syncing my attempt with theirs. I brought the idea up to John. He agreed, given a few conditions. Namely, if halfway through I was not on pace for my ten minute mile, I'd be done. And, as I should have figured out earlier, nobody would be helping me pace myself.
Fine.
I'd been waiting what felt like forever to do a mile in less than ten minutes (the thought of trying on my own honestly never occurred to me and besides, part of the point of running the mile in my mind has always been that others can validate your performance—yes, you actually got that time, it was real).
So I started running.
The first few laps were fairly simple. My eyes wandered the gym, wandered around the shining metal equipment and the diverse array of exercisers in the building. I kept moving forward, counting down in my head. Twelve laps to go. Eleven laps to go. Ten laps to go.
And so on.
I did my best to keep my pace constant, though I had no way to tell if I was succeeding or not. I had zero running experience, remember. Though I did not know it, I was running on a leg which was not straight. I had had so many surgeries. My right leg looked like it had two kneecaps. Both legs were covered with the remnants of past incisions.
Six laps in and I wasn't stopped.
Nine laps in, I started slowing. Buoyed by the motion and expenditure of energy, I was feeling fine, but in truth I was wearing out. This was real exercise beyond anything I'd attempted before. There was a part of me which knew I was slowing, I think.
So I sped up. Not a lot, mind you—I'm not capable of speed now and I certainly wasn't back then. But the pace increased, the lap times went down.
When I finished the final lap and returned to the starting position, I'm not sure if I asked for the time or not. With the motion finished, my head started pounding and my lungs started burning.
John told me the time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
He was joking and we both knew it.
The actual time was nine minutes, nineteen seconds.
I lumbered over to a waiting bench and, borrowing his cell phone, called my mother. When I'd told her that it was me calling I told her why I was calling. I'd done it, I'd done it, I'd done it, nine minutes nineteen seconds, a whole mile in less than ten minutes.
It wasn't until later that she told me she didn't think I would be able to do it.
Listen—I know a mile isn't very far, all things considered. And I'm perfectly well aware that while I have physical limitations, my struggles are nothing compared to what others have. But at the same time, in the whole history of myself and these legs of mine, if I had to choose the best moment, perhaps the most important moment, I'd choose that mile.
If I had to choose anything to experience again, I'd choose that mile.
There are Taylor Spatial Frames and surgeries and aftertastes of anesthesia to deal with, yes, but all the same they are balanced out by those other moments, those triumphant moments. And you know what? Those triumphant moments are completely worthwhile.
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