Double Dog Dare

I’m training for a half-marathon.

Oh, god. I said it. Out loud. In a public forum.

I am now contractually obligated to really do this thing, I suppose.

Okay. Breathing.

Let me explain to you all how I came to this completely insane life goal.

I started running before getting married back in 2010. I wasn’t really running to get into shape (I think I had more physical changes from walking, actually). It was more of a challenge thing. I double-dog dared myself. I owned a treadmill at the time, and had been walking for quite some time. But then the walks just felt too easy. I barely even broke out in a sweat. So, I started increasing the speed on my treadmill, until I broke from a walk to a jog. Two minutes jogging. Two minutes walking. The first time I did that, I went until I hit a mile. Eventually, I double-dog dared myself again. I wanted to run a 10-minute mile. It was speed like I never thought I could achieve. I had to take time. Had to train to get to that pace.

And then? I did it.

Then, I did it again.

Finally, I decided to leave the comfort of my bedroom. I started running outside, and I was certain that the entire world was watching my butt jiggle in my yoga pants (They were, it turns out. My neighbors were both retirees, and they both made comments at one point about seeing me running around the neighborhood. Then, our mailman really put the nail in the self-conscious coffin. I had to sign for a package that spring, and gleefully exclaimed, “Oh! These are our wedding invitations!” He replied, “Ahhh, so that’s why I keep seeing you out running all the time! I always see you and think, ‘Well, now, she doesn’t need to lose any weight. What’s she doing running around like that?’ But now I know.” He winked. “You’re trying to fit into a very special dress.” He meant all of this as a compliment, but I couldn’t help but feel violated by his uninvited judgment of my body. It was hard to go out for a run at my usual time after that.). It was terrifying.

But I did it.

Then, I did it again.

I was never fast. My 10-minute mile on the treadmill translated to about a twelve and a half-minute mile out in the real world. I shuffled. My form was terrible. I don’t think I ever even fully extended my legs as I ran. But I was running. Right before my marriage, I ran 6 miles. A long, long, slow 6 miles. I started thinking about signing up for a 10k.

Then, my new husband and I started trying to get pregnant. I was on Clomid for 6 months. We had to be artificially inseminated. I was emotional. Hormonal. I ran about once a month. Then, not at all.

My last run was when I was 13 weeks pregnant with my first daughter. I managed to run a half mile before having to stop and retch on the side of the trail.

I didn’t run again until my second daughter was about 3 months old.

I was out of shape. Out of practice. I had experienced severe incontinence after the birth of my first daughter (that has since cured itself). I was terrified. I had to double-dog dare myself. One mile. 12 minutes. On a treadmill. Inside.

Then, last December, I started running outside. About twice a week. I worked in mile increments. Just run a mile. A single mile. Down to the end of my road and back.

That first run, I did in 11 minutes and 57 seconds. 3 seconds faster than my treadmill time. For the first time ever, I had beaten the machine. Without a mechanical device pushing me along, I was running. On my own.

It’s weird, but for the first time ever, I realized that I controlled my pace. I could determine whether a run was fast, slow, or some combination of the two. I could change my posture. I could think about pushing off of my toes. I could relax my hands, or hold them stiff, slicing them through the air and feeling the breeze against my sweaty palms. I was in charge. I had control of how I ran. Me. Nothing else was pushing me or holding me back. It was just. Me.

It took a long time to break through that 1-mile mark. By summer, I was frustrated. I had cut two and a half minutes off of my mile time (I regularly run a 10-minute mile now), but I couldn’t push my body to run past 1.25 miles. It took months of frustration to finally figure out the concept of pacing. Of running slower in order to run farther.

In October, I finally ran my first 5k loop around my neighborhood. I still had to stop and walk for a spell, but I did it.

Then, I did it again.

By the end of October, I started cross-training. I did Jillian Michaels’ “30 Day Shred” and worked out 30 days in a row (I’m still kind of amazed I did that). I finished on Thanksgiving day. Two days later, I ran another 5k loop. In 33 minutes. 5 solid minutes faster than my one official 5k race pace (I ran it with my sister about a month before getting pregnant with my first daughter. I went into that race with absolutely no training or preparation. It was miserable).

I’ve never felt stronger. I’ve never felt lighter. My husband told me that he thinks I’m more fit now than I’ve been in the 12 years we’ve been together.

New Year’s approached, and I knew that I wanted to run a race.

I consulted the Internet. I consulted some of my good running friends. Some of my friends who, like me, struggled with reconciling their personal body image with athleticism (The people who, like me, looked in the mirror and didn’t see an “exercise person” or a “sports person”). They all said the same thing: We know you can do it. Go for it. We double-dog dare you.

So, I am. This is my first week of official training, and I’m terrified. Granted, this “training” week doesn’t look all that different from last week, but I’m starting every workout with a ball in my stomach and jitters.

Because I can’t stop thinking that I’ve never been that person. The exercise person. The running person. The “pain is weakness leaving the body” person. (Note: I’m still not that person. That person just sounds dumb and eager for a torn ligament.) I’m honestly afraid to tell my mother that I’m doing this, because I’m worried she’s going to laugh at the idea of her little book nerd, her little baby, her PhD, trying to become an athlete.

But I’m not trying to be an athlete.

I’m just trying to do something difficult.

Something that once seemed impossible.

Something that still kind of feels impossible.

But something that can be controlled by me and me alone.

Something that I decide the success or failure of.

But only if I dare.