My boyfriend Ben and I woke up early one Saturday in March, ate breakfast, put on our running gear and hopped in the car for an hour and a half drive. I set my GPS and Ben, still sleep-dazed, slumped into the passenger’s seat. A long drive and a full sunrise later, we arrived in Pottsville but nothing about the area was reassuring.
“Where’s the race?” I asked Ben. “Would you pull up a map? My GPS says we’re here.”
Ben tooled around with his phone, “Pleasantview Road, do you see a Pleasantview Road?”
“No, I don’t see Pleasantview Road. I don’t know Pottsville.”
“Pottsville?” he said. “Pottstown. The race is in Pottstown.”
It was our first race blunder. We were an hour and a half west of home, and an hour north of the race— which would start five minutes before we could get there. With gas, an unused entry fee and a weekend morning wasted, I drove back to Ben’s apartment so frustrated with myself that I barely spoke. I walked right into his room, tossed myself on his bed and slept for two hours—in all of my running gear.
Six months later, this mistake wouldn’t have fazed me as badly. Six months later I’d know that things happen, things like racing an old man and having two races in three months canceled due to a freak hurricane and an unseasonably early snowstorm. But in March, three months into the start of my goal to run a 5-K every month, I thought this mistake could derail my whole plan.
Twelve races in 2011 wasn’t my New Year’s resolution, it was my 2011 project—I didn’t need to start All About RunDisney 2025 continue it. I started running four years earlier in attempt to find my new athletic identity after hanging up my goggles as a competitive swimmer. Coach-less for the first time in my life, I struggled to make my runs routine. I’d run consistently for a month, train for a 5-K, race it and retire to the couch for the season.
Toward the fall of 2010 I was running with more regularity than ever before. Three miles wasn’t out of the question for a midweek run so I could easily race that distance once a month. The same wasn’t true for my new, non-running boyfriend Ben. However, when I shared my idea with him at the end of December, he announced he too would race a 5-K-a-month with me.
Including Ben on my project changed things a bit—for one, it meant I couldn’t race my races like I thought I’d be able to. I made the decision early on that if we were running together, we’d really run together. But improving my 5-K PR was never the focus of my goal. I wanted to connect the dots of my runner’s highs into a chain. I wanted to finally be a runner. Having Ben on board also made traveling much easier and much more enjoyable. Because our mid-sized city didn’t offer many year-round races to choose from, we’d often spend hours in the car for a half an hour of race time. This was especially true in the winter, which was why we were trying to get to that little Potts-city in the first place.
Luckily the March error was the first weekend in the month, and we still had time to make it to another race—which we did, but not without more trouble. The last Saturday in March, I double, triple and quadruple checked the race address in New Jersey (as did Ben) before we drove an hour out to the course. When we arrived at the parking lot of a small-town trail, there were no other cars in sight. I parked and frantically scanned the print out of race info for a clue—and I found it, clearly printed on the entry form: race day SUNDAY.
We were a day early. Defeated, I tossed my body over the steering wheel and cried. For Ben, racing is the battle; apparently for me, just showing up is. I’m lucky to have a levelheaded, optimistic boyfriend, who reassured me: at least we hadn’t missed the race. We stopped to eat on the way home and I comforted myself in a big diner breakfast.
After that, traveling got easier (because Ben took over) and instead the races themselves were the adventure. We ran our best time in May, despite an ankle ache and a poorly marked course that dumped us blindly in the middle of a classic car show. In July, I purposefully left my watch at home so we wouldn’t be tempted to dangerously sprint on an 87-degree day. We ran slowly, safely and apparently third best in Ben’s age group for his first-ever running-related award. In a Halloween themed race, I challenged Ben to see who could keep their race costume on the longest. Someone’s inflatable Buzz Lightyear wings were ‘choking’ him, but I kept my heavy synthetic Snooki wig on for the win.
In August, Ben started a new shift at work, which meant extra weekday hours and a few full working weekends. I wondered what this would mean for what was now our project. Races that would meet both of our schedules were harder to find. When our August 5-K was canceled because of Hurricane Irene, we weren’t able to run a make-up race until two months later while visiting family in Michigan. As Ben’s work hours got longer, our training time got shorter.
But the times didn’t matter. The project was working. I was running much more, with much more regularity than I ever had in the past. I surprised myself on a random solo Saturday run and made it back to my house sweaty, happy and six miles later. I even raced a women’s-only 5-K race in October and shocked myself with a PR I never knew was possible.
Because every month reminded Ben how brutal and unforgiving running can feel, he could truly recognize and celebrate my excitement as I expanded my solo long runs. He’d tell me how impressive I was after every 5-K we finished when I was never out of breath, and I’d tell him how impressive he was because he always finished so strong and he was out of breath. Our project didn’t make Ben a runner, and that’s OK. It’s made him an ambassador between my regular life and my running life; he understands why I need to spend $100 on new running shoes, and he sees what I’ve accomplished when all I can see is what needs to be accomplished.
We finally did make it to right place on the right day to race for our March 5-K. It wasn’t our most impressive race. At the starting line we stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the local high school cross-country team, which was both hosting and running the race. From there the course dropped us onto a trail, where we weaved in and out of the crowd looking for a pace to settle into. The course was hillier than it looked and I’d whisper over little tips to keep Ben moving steady.
With a mile to go, I noticed an old man in elastic sweatpants whose run was more of a wobble. I wanted to beat him, badly. As we crept up to him numerous times, he’d eye us and pull slightly ahead. Ten feet before the finish line we were corralled from the four-foot wide trail to a single file line for an organized finish. As we came up behind the man looking to pass, he suddenly extended his arms and in one final leap blocked us from passing him at the line. The competitive side of me was bummed. But like every race this year, it wasn’t the win that mattered, it was just running it.
Dana Blinder loves to run and eat cookies--both in moderation. She does both in Grand Rapids, Michigan. You can follow her running, cooking and northern living stories on her blog.
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