More than 30,000 people.
20+ mph winds.
A lap around the Indy 500 track.
An elephant at the zoo staring me down within the first 10 minutes.
Someone with grey hair braided down past their butt.
Elite athletes.
Obscene amounts of Gatorade.
Bands and cheerleaders.
Everyone going for the same goal, at widely varying paces.
That was the setting this morning for the half marathon I ran in Indianapolis. I wish I had a story about how fantastic it was but, really, it wasn’t. It was cold, it was incredibly windy (so much that I told my mom and sister not to come down with Aidan, because it would’ve been miserable for them) and my knees decided to act up on me right around mile two. Yes, mile two. Of 13.1. Right around mile nine, as I was pushing against the wind, I was downright unhappy. But the feeling of crossing the finish line is worth it, every single time. Even though I kept my pace under two hours, I was disappointed in not being able to best my other half marathon time. But the disappointment of not running as well as hoped never outweighs the thrill of finishing another race.
Why do I do it, you ask? Why do I subject myself to the unpleasant temperatures and pain and exhaustion? This is why:
Shoes laced up, I take off. In that moment it doesn’t matter that I’m a single mom. I am not defined by my job or income. I do not care what my hair looks like, if my running shorts match my top or if my appearance is pleasing to the eye. All my worries seem less important when I go out to run–the things I haven’t checked off my to-do list aren’t weighing me down and I’m not contemplating tomorrow’s tasks. There is something magical about runner’s high that only other runners understand. When my feet hit the pavement…I’m free.

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