In my thirties, I didn’t set out to run a half-marathon. I lived a full life as a busy wife and often-harried mother of two always-in-motion children, Alisa 4, Zac 2. Even with all the chaos and commotion, I stared out my front window at runners whizzing by, sometimes waved to them, and often felt lonely, empty. Daily, I jogged, or walked, alone. I’d sneak out at 5 a.m. before my husband and children awoke. I’d do my best to complete a 5-ish mile loop right outside my door.
On Sundays, my husband and I drove Alisa and Zac to Portland’s Jewish Community Center for children’s programs. We arrived one day just as a group of other parents bolted out of the Center and started to run down the street in what looked to me like a sprint. As I stood in the doorway in my teal running shorts, ready to head out on my own, I heard a friend in their midst yell an invitation, “Hey, Sue, we run every week here. Join us.”
I felt the excitement for possible togetherness and also tension, because I believed I did not fit with these experienced runners. But I recalled the phrase, “It Takes a Village”, which reminded me that many people cooperating together can rally a person through a tough challenge. So, I joined Peter, Robbie, David, Steve, John, Kermit. At the first outing, as I plodded behind them, they welcomed me, inspired me, motivated me by their determination. “We’re so happy you want to come along. You can do this. We’ll have fun.”
The warmth of friendship, the assurance of belonging and the comfort of their support settled my self-talk of “I don’t belong”. On Sundays at 9:00, we ran. The “we” seemed important because “we” included me. I ran. Once comfortable in my safety with them and on the roads, I had cotton t-shirts made for us, pink for Robbie and me, light blue for the men. I had the t-shirt creator print an image of the Wandering Jew plant on the front of the shirts. Under the leaves of the image, we added the words, Wandering Jews. As he ripped open the plastic bag which wrapped his new t-shirt, Steve aaahhed, “Oh, the fun has begun.”
At some point–I do not know when or how or who birthed the idea–someone decided we’d train for a half marathon. I did know my why for saying “yes”: for togetherness, connection, community, to usher me through 13.1 miles. As I remember them, the long-legged men stood about six-feet tall. I stretched my five-foot frame, extending my short legs to meet their stride, pumping my arms to fuel the reach. I don’t remember much about our training runs. I do remember everyone’s kindness. I do remember the felt sense of delight as we breathed, chatted, laughed and sweat together. I do remember the banter, “Hey, way to go!”, “ready for this hill?” and “Ok, deep breaths here.” Playfulness aided the shared happiness as we showed up for each other a few early mornings a week, having added a structured training schedule.
I did not think of my half marathon as a race. I called it a run, only possible with a little help from my friends. I wanted to finish in the middle, just not last. The fall day arrived warm, not hot. Perfect for running. The limitless azure sky umbrellaed us from above. The mob at the starting gate buzzed with electric energy. The fit, lean competitors stretched, jerked their bodies into contortions, panted heavily, and performed endless jumping jacks. My eyes noted groups, with spirited individuals who chuckled together. I sensed a contrast between how individuals in groups sent soft, warm gazes to each other and the loners rather stared into space. I wondered about the effect on how we feel. Does it depend, in part, on our social engagement, or lack of bonding, or on whether we have mutual help or not? As my body absorbed the pack’s ready-for-action, my jittery stomach knotted. My hands grew clammy. Yet calm Kermit and gentle John pointed to their flower-imprinted t-shirts and assured, “Remember? Fun!”
Thanks to these kind men, towering giants in their bodies and souls, my heartrate calmed. I gentled my voice toward myself. “Yes. fun. And, Sue, you can do this.”
The starting gun blasted us off from near the ocean. I knew mile 9 or so would land us in front of our home. I fully expected my husband to appear on the front lawn with a garden hose.
Breathing a little heavier, energy waning, at mile 9, I rounded the curve at the Cape Elizabeth line, and passed the sign, “welcome to South Portland.” Amazed, I spotted Cabbage Patch Kids, Care Bears and every stuffy Alisa and Zac owned, lined up side-by-side, twenty or so tiny cheerleaders on our front lawn. My husband held a green hose and sprayed runners who nodded, “yes”. My eyes landed on my children, who each cradled a cherubic doll, which they made clap for all the runners. When they recognized me, they jumped up and down, and puppeteered the arms of a Cabbage Patch Kid or Care Bear, who shook and waved to me. Alisa and Zac shouted, “Go, Mom! Yay, Mom! Good job, Mom!”
I slowed to hug my family, cherubs in their own right. Ahhh, hugs for a weary nervous system, a tiring body, and a mind that might have otherwise quit. I felt a tender inner smile as sweet tears dripped from my eyes, melting onto my already moist cheeks. My lanky running pals raised thumbs up and applauded, “We’ll push to the finish. See you there. Enjoy the end of your run.”
I wondered, could my post-nine-mile legs go the distance “alone?” And then a huge awareness: I was not alone. Many months of belonging to my welcoming running group had empowered me, buoyed me and had offered a new path of intimacy which added to the intimacy of home and family. Bolstered and embraced by the richness of team support, the half-year of training, and then by the surprise and loving celebration in front of my house, my legs lightened. For the remaining miles, I felt lifted by the generosity and creativity of my husband, by a line of stuffies, and by the joy of a four-year-old and a two-year-old who had filled my tank with their open-hearted display of care at mile 9.
Fun indeed. I did finish in the middle. It did take a village.
And now for you, the reader. Each post in THE CONNECTION COLLECTION will end with inquiring questions for you:
Have you had experiences in which you accomplished something because of the support that came through connection? How did connection reveal itself? What did you sense?
I would love to hear your experiences, your stories. If you write and send them to me at sly313@aol.com, I’ll read, savor them, and respond. Let’s connect!
