Primed for Running
Bixby Bridge, Big Sur California
At mile 18-20, I felt a sharp pain in my right calf. It was fast, for a split second, then it was gone. So, I took inventory of my body and decided to keep going. Really, it would not have mattered, I was so close, I was going to cross the finish line no matter what.
I was running marathon number seven along the Big Sur coast. Runners were greeted at every turn with towering redwood trees or the roar of the Pacific Ocean. At mile marker ten, we began our two mile climb up Hurricane Point with Taiko drummers encouraging us with every step. At mile fifteen a man in a tuxedo plays runners across Bixby Bridge on his baby grand piano. The hills are endless and the curve of the road unforgiving, causing my ankles, calves and knees to hit the ground at odd angles. It is one of the most beautiful and hilliest courses I have ever run. I had mentally prepared for the two-mile climb, but I was not ready for the undulating hills before and after. I kept waiting for a plateau that never came.
Less than a year before I had run my two fastest marathons, today I would be lucky to finish. After I felt the first sharp pain, I felt it again two more times, but it was always just for a second, so I would press on.
Mile 23 was the last hill, it was not big, but at that point, it might as well have been Everest. Another runner, a female angel, came along side me talking with me the entire climb. I thought she was going my pace, but at the top of the hill she bid me good luck and took off again. She had done her job of carrying me up the last obstacle to the finish line.
I crossed the finish line at a snail’s pace, scanning the crowd for my husband. We were staying in Pebble Beach for our 15th wedding anniversary following the race. I was so proud but frustrated at the same time. It was the hardest race I had ever run, and I did not know why. I had prepared, I had trained. What happened?
After resting, visiting the massage tent and trying to roll out my legs, we walked to the car. A walk that should have taken five minutes, took thirty. Curbs felt like mountains. We got to the hotel room and I continued to stretch, ice and elevate. After several hours, my right calf was visibly swollen. We headed to the emergency room.
The first thing to rule out was a blood clot, after that was negative a second ultrasound showed a partial tear in my right calf muscle. My first question was how long does this take to heal (aka when can I run again). The person doing the ultrasound said usually 4-6 weeks (ok that is better than 4-6 months!). I got the first set of crutches of my life. I was relieved to know an injury caused my pain and slower pace. Finishing our trip on crutches was not easy or very romantic, but we tried to enjoy and make the most of it.
After 4 weeks of no weight bearing and hobbling around, never getting the hang of crutches, I started physical therapy. I worked back to running. I had to be ready for the next marathon in October.
The marathon was in Victoria, BC, this time I traveled alone. I started out with a pacer for my best marathon time, I felt great until the halfway mark. It was clear I had started out too fast, rookie mistake. In running, one of the rules for race day is do not start out too fast. It is easy to do, you are rested coming off the taper, it is the day you have been training and waiting for for months. You go out too fast, at a pace you are not used to, and you pay for it in the later miles. You can kill your legs and your time. After I dropped back from the pacer, I slowed way down and wished I had signed up for the half marathon. There is no changing course mid race, so I trekked on, putting one foot in front of the other. My right calf was starting to bother me again, but not as bad. Clearly, the distance was too much too soon. I stopped to check in with a medic on the course. I explained my previous injury six months before so I did not sound crazy. His response? “They have some good Tylenol at the finish line.” He never even took his hands from behind his back. I turned back to the course and finished, slower than slow, but I crossed marathon finish line number eight.
After the race, I posted on social media about finishing, but wishing I had run the half. A friend said, “You are the only one who would say I should have run the half, but still finish the full marathon.” Race rules are such you cannot switch courses mid race. I remember looking longingly at the turning point for the half marathon course, envious of the runners who were almost finished for the day. I could not make the turn because my bib said, “full marathon”. At that point, my options were to quit or to continue, however slow. The only reason I can ever imagine not finishing a marathon is if I have to be taken off the course on a stretcher or in an ambulance, so slow and steady was the answer for the day. After all, it would not last forever.
Running my best time felt amazing – that was October 2017. Running my worst time felt shitty and amazing at the same time – that was October 2018. It is easy to show up and love running when it feels good. It is so difficult to keep showing up when you are hurt. The slowest, hardest miles can mean more than the easiest, fastest miles. The hardest miles are where you prove your dedication, tolerance, determination and grit. You have to dig deep mentally and physically to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
As an adoptee, I was hurt the moment I was taken from my biological mother, yet I was expected to keep showing up. I had to show up for my adoptive parents and everyone else who followed. After a lifetime of showing up hurt, 26.2 miles was easy.
Adoptees have a special kind of resilience. We face the worst thing that can ever happen to a person the moment we are born. Our body stores this trauma and we grow up not knowing how to verbalize the pain. Sometimes our bodies retaliate against us for not coping, giving us health problems that seem unrelated to relinquishment. We grow up in families where we do not fit in, we try to be everything to everyone while abandoning our truth. We do not know our roots, our history. Some of our adoptive families want us to believe their history is our history, but we know it is not true. This only confuses us.
We are calculating our whole lives, we are reading other people’s reactions constantly to make sure we are safe, so we know what our next move should be. All this mental acrobatics is exhausting, but it builds resilience and toughness, priming us to better handle life. When we finally come out of the fog realizing all we have accomplished, we are ready for the hard work of healing, the work of finding our true selves.
All the years of calculating and biding my time prepared me for the miles of marathon training. Surviving being adopted and crossing a finish line is something no one can take away, but they are also both lonely journeys. It was up to me to use my mental toughness and grit to keep moving forward.
Running a marathon is half mental endurance, your mind can override your tired legs, dry mouth, chafed skin and the elements. Adoptees are primed for running, of all the people I have met, adoptees have the strongest mental toughness. When I first laced up my running shoes, I knew I could go the distance because I had been running my whole life, the race to find myself, to survive.