Hope in "the Grind"

I am in what I call “the grind” of training. My hardest, longest runs are in these weeks. “The grind” is when I most question my sanity, and most hate running, In these weeks my body aches to the point that I often avoid stairs and circle parking lots hoping for a better space, just to save myself some walking.

But the grind is also the place I see magnificent hope. Moments that might pass by unnoticed if I wasn’t so desperately looking for a sign I can get through it. 

J enjoying the sunrise on the lake

Last week, I did one of my 10-mile runs with a friend, J. She got up at 6 a.m. after going to bed around 3 a.m. to join me. We enjoyed the sunrise over the lake, laughed a lot, and looked for the meaning of life in our stories. Through sleepy eyes and tired bodies we ran. Near the end, J. exclaimed  “Allison, this is no longer fun anymore.” It was mile 9.8 and she was right. What she may not realize is that conversation and company was my sign of light that morning.

One week later, I hobbled in the door after a 17.5 mile run. Drenched in sweat, I gingerly moved towards the water glass on the table. Guzzling my drink, I walked into the living room where my dad, sister and our friend, L., were sitting., L ran the first 6 miles with me but was showered and dressed by now. They all looked up from the television when I said hi. My sister’s mouth dropped open and her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Oh my God! Are you okay? Did you chafe? You must have chafed.”

I looked down at my white shirt. There was a giant streak of blood mixed with sweat running from just above my heart to the bottom of my shirt. I felt the burning pain of the skin rubbed away on my chest around mile nine, but I soon forgot about it and focused on finding water instead. I never noticed the blood.  I wondered how many of the people I ran by noticed it?

It was fitting that the blood on my shirt started near my heart. I have been pushing so hard, just trying to move forward that I forget that others can see my pain. I forget there are a few people left who will notice, who care, and who will help me heal. They’re still out there.

J. and L. and my family understood a little bit of what I was going through. They were there for a piece of this journey—running with me for parts of it, or just being there when I finished to see the mix of joy, fatigue, and literal blood and sweat poured out. For the first time in months, I felt acknowledged in a complete way—as a strong human being who happens to be in the middle of one of life’s grinds.

We might run by a lot of people in life who never notice our heart is bleeding, or who chose to ignore it if they do see. Some of those people may even be people we used to count on. It is one of my greatest challenges to let them go on by. 

The grind can be a lonely time---mile after mile of choosing which pain of the many to deal with. Which wound to tend to first. Then once in awhile, we find someone who understands. Who will get up early, run a little bit of the race with us, or just pay attention to the wounds we’ve ignored. Once in awhile, if we just keep running, we run right into witnesses and companions. Symbols of hope in the grind. 

Why Am I Doing This?

The last week has been full of “Why am I doing this?” moments.

I am sure we’ve all had them. Times when the endeavor we’ve chosen seems too much to handle. Too hard. Not worth it. Those moments when we think seriously about throwing in the towel.

The moments of regular life—new job, school, transplant details and all of the why I am I doing this questions that go with each of those culminated in on Sunday, when my training plan called for my first 15 mile run. I was sitting on my couch in my running clothes, eating my sandwich and trying not to dread the run ahead. I tried to psych myself up but I kept thinking “I don’t have to do this. This is optional. Why am I doing this?”

For me, these moments always lead to some looking back over how I wound up here. What on earth possessed me to make this choice? Why did it ever seem like a good idea?

I thought about the freedom of choice. I didn’t have to run this afternoon and I didn’t have to run a marathon. While I was at it I didn’t have to do my homework or donate my kidney. But I knew I couldn’t back out. I knew I would be out the door in a half hour running mile after endless mile and following through with all of those other things. To do otherwise would be to deny my essential nature—to deny who I am and the faith I have in those decisions.

I knew this was going to be hard. Nothing about running 15 miles is easy. A quote from A League of Their Own popped into my head. “Hard? Of course it’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. If it weren’t everyone would do it. It’s the hard that makes it great.”  It’s supposed to be hard. I wasn’t sure about that. I don’t think these long hard runs, whatever they are for us, are meant to always teach us some lesson. I don’t think this is ‘for a reason.”

But I had to do it. I had to do it because it’s what I love and who I am. Not being out there with hurting feet at mile twelve, and three more to go, but being an endurance runner. Being someone who commits to something I want to do and following through.  

Why am I doing this? Because I can’t imagine not.

Deep inside all of us is some sort of compass that tells us where we’re supposed to go and who we are supposed to be. We, being the creatures of free will that we are, can follow that or deny it. We can say yes or no to love and to ourselves. To say yes to love, to the direction our compass points, means sometimes following it right into darkness and difficult times. Hard is just part of the journey. There’s no way to being authentic without facing some daunting and lonely roads.

We can seek out the easy way, or turn back, or we can follow the direction we know we need to go, even when it’s difficult. I stepped out the door and looked down my street. I thought about the marathon, and what it meant to say yes right now. I thought about being the middle of the next hard choice, the next hard journey and the preparation that this run is for that moment. I took a deep breath and took off. Suddenly 15 miles didn’t seem so long after all.