Page 113 of Get Me to the Starting Line
I let that comment slide. For now.
We scuff along the path, and I know she’s pushing herself to go faster. I try to slow her down, but the panic and disappointment at coming in last are fuelling her. She won’t listen to me.
I give her a few minutes to collect her thoughts and then I start in on her.
“You don’t even like running. Why do you care so much about coming in last?” I ask carefully.
“No one wants to come in last,” she mumbles. “It proves I can’t do this.”
“But you are doing it.”
“Not well.”
“So?”
She throws her hands up in exasperation. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
“I know you,” I say quietly. I want her buttons pushed. I want to see her come out of her shell, to fight with me, to fight with herself.
It’s not like her to get so defeated.
“This feels like failing,” she finally says.
“Why? You’re running a half marathon.”
“We’ve taken walking breaks.”
“Oh, come on. You know by now that even elite athletes take walking breaks. It can be strategic.”
“But I’m not being strategic about the breaks. We walk when I can’t bring myself to run anymore.”
“Well, you’re not an elite athlete,” I say with a shrug. She scowls, and I have to stop the corners of my mouth from quirking.
“Jackass,” she hisses. It’s been a while since she’s called me that. I’ve missed it.
“Besides,” I continue like she didn’t just try to offend me, “it’s not that you can’t keep going, it’s that you haven’t proved to yourself you can yet.”
“What?” Her feathers are getting ruffled. I’m on the right track.
“I told you—running is a mental sport. All the training you’ve done, it’s changed you, changed the way your mind thinks. And now this is the test, to see if what you learned can help you when it’s hard.”
She’s silent, digesting. I make my move, placing my hands on her arms so she stays with me, in this moment, and not in her doubts of the past.
“When you started, you couldn’t run more than thirty seconds straight. You didn’t think you could run a mile, a 5k, a 10k. Your brain told you you couldn’t. Until you did it. Use that. Use that perseverance, that proof, right here, right now.”
She blows out a deep breath.
“Do you blink an eye at a 5k run now? No, you run at least two of them every week. Eight months ago you would’ve scoffed.”
I don’t think I’ve ever spoken this much without someone talking back. Is this how people feel when I barely contribute to conversations? Shit, I am a jackass.
“So, we’re coming in last. Guess what? It’s hard to run slow. Think of it this way, we’re going to take”—I glance at my watch and do a quick calculation in my head—“aroundthree and a half hours to complete this race.” She makes a distraught sound, but I keep my hold on her so she can’t slump over in defeat.
“Do you know how much mental strength it takes to run for three and a half hours? Running long and slow is its own accomplishment. To have the discipline to stick with something hard for that long? To not give up?”
“I’m not giving up,” she says sharply, as if I accused her of a horrible crime.
“I know you aren’t. And because of that, you’re going to finish. And you’ll be wearing that medal around your neck the same as everyone else. Same as the person who won first place. It’s the same medal.”
