I thought my reasons to not run this race were quite valid: 1) I have been suffering from a re-occurring sinus infection from Christmas. 2) I had not trained to run this half marathon. In fact, the longest miles I had run amounted to a mere six! Granted, I had been running sixes and threes quite consistantly since the St. George Marathon last October and until I was in an automobile accident. I had to take some time off to heal and the holidays only compounded the problem. I easily fell out of the habit. 3) I had put on seven pounds from the holidays--too much fudge.
Long ago, however, I realized that if you make excuses not to run, then you will always be able to convince yourself not to run. "Just get out there and give it your best." I told myself. "If you end up having a bad run, you won't be surprised. At least you will have run and put in the miles."
So I crawled out of the bed at the condo, threw on my running clothes, and had J and kids drive me down to the starting line.
If you have never been to St. George, or Zion National Park for that matter, you might consider it. This area is nature at its most colorful and majestic. We not only came down this past weekend for me to race but to get a break from the frigid winter temperatures of northern Utah and the unhealthy smog resulting from 14+ consecutive days of the inversion.
St. George is surrounded by red buttes and cliffs. Though the course of the St. George Marathon is more beautiful, this course has its highlights--running under steep rock cliffs, running along the edge of the butte on the eastern side of town so you can look out over the sun-drenched city, even in January; and running through beautifully manicured homes (a few which look to cost millions).
But this is not the reason why I am writing this.
I saw the most inspiring thing. Around mile 4, two men passed me. They weren't professional runners. You could tell by their t-shirts, worn shorts, generic white socks, and old running shoes. They reminded me of how my dad used to dress to run when all us kids were still at home and he had little money to spend on himself or his hobbies.
I noticed these runners after they passed me. I was running in a large group and they had a faster gait. They quicly manuevered themselves through the middle of the pack and past me. It was at this point that I realized that they were holding hands, not like lovers, but in the manner in which one was obviously leading the other. It was at this moment, that I realized that one of them was blind.
I had seen blind runners before in the Hood to Coast relay and St. George Marathon. In those races, the blind runner held fast to an elasticized rope held by the lead runner. In the marathon, when the duo would reach a large pack of runners, the lead runner would yell out "Blind runner coming through." This lead runner didn't do that. These runners, I think, were better friends. They seemed that way in the way they talked back and forth and the unique way in which they had trained for this moment. Let me explain.
While I was able to see them, I noticed that whenever they manuevered through large packs of runners, the lead runner would grab hold of the other's hand and lead him through, making sure that there was enough space for both of them to get through. When they would get out in the open, the lead would let go and they would run side by side. During one part of the course, there were curves. These runners ran side by side, their shoulders touching and swinging to the beat of their gait. Running like this would be hard, to say the least.
I don't listen to music while I run. It's always just me and my thoughts or talking with other runners, which is a whole other story for another time.
So I thought about these runners. At first, I thought about how much patience the lead runner must have in order to train with this fellow. But the more I watched them, the more I realized that patience really wasn't what this relationship was about. Rather, the terms friendship, respect, and even lovingkindness seemed to best describe them.
I thought about the blind runner. I thought about being blind. I thought about all of those obstacles he must have conquered to get out to run--courage, self-confidence, and probably most importantly, trust. A couple of times, when the path straightened, the lead runner would say something to his friend and his friend would inch away from him and run unassisted. I got the chills each time he did this.
I used to dream of flying. I used to leap off anything tall, such as a steep grassy hill, hoping to catch the air in my arms, to defy gravity, and hang upon the wind like a bird. On Saturday, I was cognizant of this dream and that of the man ahead of me. The awareness of him and his ability to run unassisted captured my complete attention. I heard the sound of my feet on asphalt and pavement; I caught the whisperings of the air (and the feel of it) as I ran through it; I felt the machine, the workings of my leg muscles; my heart kept the beat and I was running under the rythmn of syncopated breaths. I will never know what it means to fly. But I do know how it feels to run.
This experience never felt so good; this experience never seemed so new.
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