Last weekend, my husband and I ran a 20k trail run. This was his first trail run and my second. I ran a 5k trail a few years ago and hated every minute of it. As a result of not having a clue what I was doing and wearing the wrong shoes, I ended up with a stress fracture and wore a boot for six weeks. So, I was a bit apprehensive about this second one.
We went for a practice run on the trails the weekend before the 20k. In all honesty, I just tagged along with Mark because he had signed up for the run and wanted to know what to expect. I had no intentions of participating in the run. However, we ran nearly eight miles that day, and it went so well that when we were done, I announced I wanted to sign up, too.
As the week progressed and the day drew closer, I started getting nervous. I read articles about trail running, and I scanned last year’s race results. It didn’t take long for me to begin to worry that I’d committed to being in over my head. I decided the day before the run that I’d just do my best, and my only goal was to not be the last person to cross the finish line.
I stood in the starting line with a little more than a hundred people (all of them looking much more fit and confident than I felt) and wondered what the heck I’d signed up to do. I was out of my element. I scooted way over to the right to ensure I didn’t get run over within the first thirty seconds of the run. I quickly fell to the back of the herd as we ran down the road towards the trail. Those folks weren’t messing around, and I started thinking that maybe I should’ve signed up for the 10k instead of the 20.
As we turned onto the trails, I checked behind me to make sure I wasn’t the last person. I wasn’t, but there were only a few others behind me. Panic! However, I settled in to a rhythm pretty quickly, and appreciated running on a path that didn’t make my knees ache. In addition, the stunningly beautiful views of the lake to my left were an added bonus.
I passed a few folks here and there and found my pace behind two other ladies for a couple of miles. I watched their feet and landed my steps in the same path they did. After a while, though, I scooted around them, and had to run looking down directly in front of my feet to ensure I didn’t land on any rocks or trip over any roots. I finished the first six-mile loop with a time I could live with.
As I headed down the road to re-enter the trails for the second loop, I kept looking behind me only to see a scattering of people. I realized pretty quickly that I was going to have to haul a$$ if I didn’t want to be the last person to cross the finish line. That second loop, though, was mentally and physically tougher than I expected.
I ran around a few people who were beginning to tire, and by about mile eight, I was running completely alone. It was during the next couple of miles that I learned how trail running is different from road running. I’m used to running alone on the road or a paved path. It’s almost mindless running, and I can listen to music or a podcast while letting my eyes take in the scenery around me. But out in the woods, it’s a different story.
No earphones were allowed on the trails in order to allow runners to hear someone coming up behind them to pass, so the only sounds were the birds chirping and leaves rustling and my own breathing.
I tried a couple of times to look ahead and behind me, but quickly learned that’s a danger. I had to keep my head down with my eyes directly in front of my feet; otherwise, I risked falling face-first. My mind didn’t drift and wander like when I run on pavement. Instead, I was mentally focused on each and every step.
By the time I made it out of the second loop and to the finish line, I’d learned a valuable life lesson: On life’s journey, it doesn’t matter who is in front of us or behind us. What matters is that we are running our own journey to the best of our abilities. It’s nice to reach the finish line first (or, at least, not last), but in the moment, in the throes of hard work, we have to keep our eyes focused on our own progress, not someone else’s.
While I was determined not finish last, the running became less of a competition against other people, and more of an internal competition. How hard was I willing to work? Was I willing to run alone when the journey was hard?
I finished the run with a less-than-stellar time and while I was thrilled not to be the last person to cross the finish line, I felt tears stinging my eyes because I’d finished my race. I finished something that was a struggle for me.
