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.