ENDGAME, PART V: THE FINISH LINE
I
think the first thing you could say about the days leading up to my
attempt at the 5K was that I was scared. I was practically petrified.
Wednesday, October 16. Two days to go.
Two days to go until I tried to conclude my recovery from the frame
with a strong note. Two days to go before I tried to complete a
long-standing goal. And not just any long-standing goal—a goal which had
been standing for four years, probably longer, a goal which was a basic
pillar of my trying to get myself back in shape.
With two
days to go, I swam for a bit. I'd gotten a new swimsuit a few days
earlier which my family was encouraging me to try out. Since they didn't
know about the 5K, they didn't know that swimming in the suit might
interfere with my ability to get out and run.
As it turned out, the suit was a wonderful improvement over the deck shorts. Less resistance, sleeker, faster, better fitting.
But I didn't get myself out on a run.
Thursday,
October 17. One day to go. To conserve my strength for the big day, I
rested and tried not to think about the following day, 8:00 p.m., when I
would take off with all the other runners (racers?), when I would find
out what I could or couldn't do.
Friday, October 18. Race day.
I
woke up at the normal time for a Friday, went to my normal Friday
morning piano lesson, shuffled between my normal Friday classes (10:00
a.m., 12:00 p.m. and 1:00 p.m., each an hour long; the 11:00 a.m. break
used for whatever homework the 10:00 class had assigned). For the most
part, it was, to be honest, an entirely forgettable day. Nothing awful, nothing fantastic.
After the 1:00 class got out, I headed to the cafeteria and forced some pasta down my throat.
The
afternoon was spent in my dorm. Maybe I did homework. I almost
certainly hung out in the lounge, watching my hallmates stress out over
Super Smash Bros. or MarioKart. At some point, I had dinner, most likely
in the cafeteria.
It's odd, looking back. It was a
fairly significant day for me. I know that plenty of people run 5Ks,
that the 5K really isn't all that extreme a fitness feat, that it
borders on being a somewhat pedestrian accomplishment. But it was a
level I'd never before touched. And then there was the whole aspect of
the frame. By then, the frame was well and truly departed. It still
lingered in my mind. It was October and there were still some days where
it was warm enough to wear shorts, which showed off the still-purple
pattern of dot-shaped incisions where the pins used to be. It had been,
by then, less than 10 months since the device was attached, a bit more
than five since it had been removed. Yet, despite the significance of
the day, I can really only remember about an hour towards the end.
I
do recall being on edge the entire evening. I changed into my running
outfit—a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants—fairly early, determined that I
would leave well in advance of the race and made motions to jump out the
dorm for at least half an hour before I actually left. I flitted
between my room and the lounge, from chair to standing to chair again.
This was big, this was significant and I was not actually certain that
I'd be able to do it. At any rate, there was no going back. My race fee
had been processed weeks ago. The t-shirt was lying next to my bed.
With
just enough and a bit more time to spare, I left the dorm. My initial
plan had been to walk to the starting point, towards the center of
campus, on my own but when I found out the RA for the other side of the
floor was also signed up for the race, I waited for him and we walked
together.
It was a chill October evening. I hugged my
arms close to my body for warmth and was thankful for the sweatpants
(yes, I could've worn a jacket, but I figured it would be nothing but
trouble once the race began). We talked a bit on the way down, though it
wasn't all that far—fifteen minutes, at most. He knew his way around
better than I did, so we were able to take some shortcuts.
We
arrived with plenty of time before the race began. Writing this now,
I'm tempted to talk about the experience at length, but only a few
details are actually relevant. I think it's relevant that it felt like a
party, that there was a solid crowd and music and dancing. I think it's
relevant that they had a station full of glow-in-the-dark pens to apply
to your shirt and I tried to write 12-26-12 on my sleeve in honor of
the frame's birthday but didn't quite succeed (mercifully, the attempt
washed out when I put the shirt through the laundry later). I think it's
relevant that it was energized and I was still nervous, looking through
the crowd to try to gauge how many other 5K first-timers there were,
trying to gauge if I'd finish last or not (through a mix of analyzing my
very unofficial, mostly unknown 1650 time from swimming and pulling
numbers out of thin air, I was guesstimating that it would take me about
45 minutes to complete the race).
The starting
line proper was an anonymous stretch of road next to one of the
University of Virginia's 17 libraries. I believe 200 to 300 people
signed up for that particular race. At any rate, the road was well full
of people, layers and layers of people.
I made my way towards the back, though not all the way to the back. I didn't want to be rushed on my way out.
The start was announced (I think somebody shouted it) and everybody was off.
Some
people took off at a mad sprint. Some people started slowly walking. I
started jogging. I'd been told to always go a bit slower than I thought I
had to go, but I ignored the advice. Besides, I was barely able to keep
up my jog with all the people. The roads weren't blocked off for the
race so, once the initial crush barreled through and things thinned out a
little, everybody was on the sidewalks, which are only so wide. I
dodged and I wove through the crowd.
We passed a
library and the primary student life building. We passed the historic
Lawn at the heart of the University and we passed the Environmental
Science building where I have my Attic Greek lecture Mondays, Wednesdays
and Fridays. The path sloped downwards and we headed towards the
Engineering School and the Chemistry Building and old dorms.
I'd
gone about a kilometer (I'd checked all the distances and walked
through the course beforehand using Google Maps, though the middle
portion of the course changed the day of the race) and was holding up
just fine so far. At any rate, it qualified as an accomplishment.
Nowhere near my personal record for longest distance run, nowhere near
the actual finish line, but not bad.
We turned onto
Alderman Road and headed away from campus. Again, the sidewalk was
sloping downhill. I was caught behind a group of two which alternated
between jogging and walking, jogging and walking. I like to think I was
going at a fairly constant clip—at any rate, I hadn't slowed down to
walk quite yet—and kept passing them, though then they'd speed up and
pass me.
It was an unfortunate cycle.
We
turned onto Thomson Road, a residential street. When I'd done my 1.8
mile run I'd headed down Thomson, checking it out before race day. It
was reasonably well-lit, though it had no sidewalk (and, luckily enough,
no traffic). My breath was starting to catch but I kept going. I passed
the walk-jog-walkers. Still going.
One mile.
The
path then turned from Thomson to Fauquier, a short little burst of
sidewalk-free asphalt between Thomson and the next street, Lewis
Mountain, which thankfully had a sidewalk.
The race
organizers set people out on the course to cheer us on. They said we
were almost halfway through. I took that as a good sign. I wasn't
feeling optimal or, really, extremely close to optimal, but I was still
going, I could still keep going.
I kept going.
After
scarcely any time on Lewis Mountain, the course turned onto Cameron
Lane. This was where the course grew less familiar—I'd never been down
these streets physically, only traveled them a couple times digitally
through ever-handy Google Maps. Not to mention, I was arriving at the
part of the course which had changed earlier that day.
I
remember the Cameron Lane portion of the race for one very simple
reason: Cameron Lane was downhill. Not an incredibly steep downhill, but
definitely downhill, as opposed to "slight downward slant" like other
portions of the course. Charlottesville is a hilly city and Cameron Lane
headed right down a hill.
It was a nice break, truth be told.
And
according the group of race organizers at the bottom of the street, it
was the halfway point. I'd been trying to suppress my hope throughout
the day, keep my expectations reasonable. Now, it looked like I actually
had a shot at finishing the race.
Cameron
Lane turned
into Bollingwood Road, the downhill transitioning to the inevitable
uphill. I'm not going to say that the uphill felt like it lasted
forever, because it didn't. I'd been conserving my energy decently well
throughout the course and was able to keep chugging along. Besides,
though the uphill was continuous, the distance wasn't all that long in
comparison to the distance I'd already come. The finish line was still
ahead. I was more than halfway through. Couldn't give up now.
Bollingwood
to Minor. Minor to Kent. There was a water station at the corner of
Minor and Kent, but I passed it. I didn't want to stop for anything.
Just keep going. Almost there.
I'd gone about two miles.
Kent
to Alderman. Once I was on Alderman, I was safe, pretty much. Once I
was on Alderman, you see, all the landmarks I passed were familiar
landmarks, the buildings and dorms and patches of sidewalk I passed
every single day. Granted, I was running instead of walking and I was on
the opposite side of the road compared to normal, but it was familiar.
Since
the uphill portion of the race, I'd been alone, having left the
walk-jog-walkers behind. My pace was my pace. My father had suggested I
find somebody to run with; the people I asked invariably turned me down,
not wanting to go to the effort to actually run a 5K. My father also
asked me about the visibility. After all, it was a nighttime
glow-in-the-dark 5K. And while the glow sticks which came with my race
registration were dangling from my wrist and neck (they somehow stayed
on the entire race and didn't cause any problems), really the only light
was streetlights and the moon. The streetlights were orange-yellow,
except for in a few sections where there were none. The moon was full
and beautiful. I admired it as I went along, admired it as I had admired
the musicality of my steps that first training run.
Alderman to the University of Virginia. The home stretch.
The
old dorms came first. My breathing was growing harder and my energy was
waning. I kept running, kept running. The finish line wasn't so close I
could practically see it, but I knew it was about a kilometer away and I
knew if I'd come this far I was going the rest of the way.
Physics
Building. Still panting for breath. Slight relief when there was a
brief uphill, though the relief evaporated once I was headed uphill
again.
Newcomb Hall, Alderman Library. I'm not sure if I
was miserable or not but I felt like I was at my limit. Kept powering
through. The finish line was now almost so close I could practically see
it.
The road headed into another downhill. I sped up
as best I could, rushing the finish line (which was was the same as the
starting line). A person with a stopwatch told me I'd ran the 5K in
34:42.
I slowed to a stand and let it soak in for a second.
I'd done it.
1) Don't be fat.
2) Run a mile in less than 10 minutes.
3) Finish a 5K, running from start to finish.
It
was an old list. It had practically become a part of me. And, more
than four years after finishing the second item on the list, a month
after making a solid dent on the first, I had finished it.
That
list isn't a part of me anymore. I no longer define myself partially as
a person who cannot finish a 5K, a person who can't do this or can't do
that.
Later the evening of October 18, I emailed my
father to let him know I had survived and finished the 5K. Thrilled at
my time, a full ten minutes less than my guess, I included that too.
Unable to keep a straight face, he told my mother for me. The only
surprise I had to reveal the following morning was my time.
I
can't say I mind that much. Maybe I wasn't able to spring the surprise
on my mother, but I was able to finish the race. I finished the task
which marked the end of my recovery from the frame.
I moved on from the device.
The
frame is in Ecuador now, I believe. It is, at any rate, no longer with
me. It has left its marks, but more significant than the five half-pin
marks and the two piano wire pin marks, more significant than the 11˚
shift in the alignment of my leg is the transformation the frame has
wrought within me. It has taken away my limp, it has reduced the
possibility of future pain. It has freed my motion and it has allowed me
to run a 5K.
That list (don't be fat/10 minute mile/5K)
was a funny sort of list. It was a list which set my limits. Oh, look
at you, you can't run a mile in less than 10 minutes. Oh, look at you,
you can't finish a 5K. It was not a particularly nice list, though it
was a significant list.
The frame took that away, too.
It's
going to be a while before I know just how much the frame changed me.
I'm still picking up the pieces and shoving them into place. But I can
say this much: the frame transformed me.
And I'm glad for it.
December 19, 2013-December 31, 2013
Minneapolis, Minnesota
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