I did it.

I did it.  Whoa.

I could start to write about this in one of two ways: I could say that I'm proud of myself, or I could describe the pride.  It just so happens that I started with the latter, and this gave me pause as I considered the negative connotation of "pride" as opposed to the positive one of "being proud of myself".  It is socially acceptable for a girl to be proud of herself for running her first race, or for walking calmly past the dessert without eyeing the pie, or for doing well on an exam.  Pride, however, stinks of arrogance, of unwarranted haughtiness.  How can two words that are so closely related be so fundamentally different?

It is with some circumspect reservation, then, that I confess to having some pride in myself today.  I ran a 5K (3.1 miles) in 30 minutes and 28 seconds.  Apart from the time being a personal best (I usually finish in anywhere from 32 to 36 minutes), today was special because it represents, quite simply, an accomplishment.  I didn't have to set an hour aside daily for the past six weeks so I could train.  There were plenty of excuses I could have made for myself, including but not limited to needing sleep, needing time to work, and needing time in general.  For the record, it's not as if I was looking for a hobby because I have free time.

So I could have run it cold.  I could have stopped to walk.  I could have been a no-show.  I did none of those things.  I made a commitment to myself that I would stick to my training schedule, no matter what, and spend the entire race running.  No matter what.

That isn't to say that it was easy.  It was 10 am on an October morning in upstate New York, which meant that five minutes in, I was flexing the fingers of the hand not holding my iPod in an effort to ward away the stiffness that threatened it.  And there were two hills.  I hadn't prepared for hills, and when I saw them, I groaned inwardly.  There were times when I felt that I was moving more vertically than horizontally.  Like I was on a pogo stick.  Not pleasant.  But I set short-term goals: the next lamppost, the next mailbox, the next bush over there...and then I was gazing downward and smiling as I let gravity help me for the next minute or so.  Apart from these obstacles, it was just me and old Britney Spears tunes in my ear.  I won't lie; I was only a staunch Britney devotee until her life went downhill, but the beats from her newer material are stellar in terms of establishing breathing rhythms.

There were also better spots during the half-hour.  There were times when I stopped checking my iPod to see how long I had been going.  I actually zoned out a few times.  I forgot that the plastic dog tag twist-tied to my shoelaces was slapping my foot in time with Britney.  I stopped checking out the fifty-somethings running five-minute milers.  I slipped into a single-minded, dissociative focus.  Prior to today, I've only experienced this while writing songs or studying.  In this state, I felt simple delight at the briskness of the morning, the tingly adrenaline rush, the strength of my muscles (biology...actin...myosin...yum.)  It was suddenly calm upstairs.

As I approached the 3-mile marker, I resolved that I would sprint to the finish line.  A strong finish.  Almost done.  It would be a shame if you didn't go all-out; you'd definitely regret it later.  I felt like a machine, with all of my moving parts sliding back and forth smoothly and without complaint.  I smiled slightly as I blew across the finish line, wanting to fling my arms skyward but entirely too self-conscious to do such a thing.  Instead, I settled for a leisurely, satisfying victory lap around the parking lot at Hudson Valley Community College.  And then, I found myself smiling (with pride in myself) at strangers and scenery alike as I munched on an apple cinammon Nutra-Grain bar and made my way home.

Across hill and vale and moor

I want to run.

I want to run a 5K...and a 10K, and a half-marathon, and the big shebang herself.  I think I ought to start with the 5K, though.  No sense in going backwards.

I should note that I haven't the faintest idea about how to train.  I don't know how my body will react to running on a road rather than on a conveyor belt.  I don't know how I even became this endorphin junkie.  I dreaded "The Mile".  I, like many former asthmatics and painfully insecure middle- and high-schoolers, avoided that terrible day like the plague.

To me, the non-athlete, the gym teachers always seemed a touch vindictive that day.  Each stood blandly, unforgiving stopwatch in hand, at each quarter, calling out times and hiding judgments behind deceivingly encouraging teacher-eyes.  I always began strongly, bounding along in the front half of the pack.  I would feel a stab of hope when I reached the first teacher in under two minutes.  Eight minutes isn't bad.  But I always finished at nine or ten minutes, and embarrassingly red-faced at that.  My only consolation was that I wasn't...last.  Even now, I shudder at the thought.  How shameful.  It was partly the terror of being last that propelled me around the track and, the instant it was all over, as far away from gym class as possible.  (I much preferred English.)

And these days, I run not one mile, but several at a time.  Unthinkable.  I don't always go about it in the healthiest way - I do feel things pop, lock, complain, and burn every now and then - but still.  How did I ever manage, I wondered this evening (after my date with the conveyor belt, of course), to make it from non-athlete to almost-addict?

I learned not to underestimate myself, at least in this respect.  I learned not to take my muscles for granted, powerful actin and myosin and adenosine triphosphate and everything in between.  (Yes, I am a devotee of biology, and if you know me, you know that.  You also know that I never apologize for this love.)

But I digress.

I learned to bathe in wind.  I learned to dig into the road and propel myself forward with every stride.  And now, I have my own special time, something I create for myself at will.  It is my time, only mine.  And during this time, I am strong, lean, in control.  I can do anything, because my legs will carry me across hill and vale and Secret-Garden moor.  (I always did like that word, "moor".  It sounds dreary at first glance, but if you think about it, a moor is a vast area of empty land - the perfect place where sullen, sickly Mary could have learned the joys of a good run.)