Crossing the Start Line

One of the most important shifts in thinking in my adult life happened about three and a half years ago. On a perfectly typical day, I was climbing the stairs to my apartment. I lived on the second floor, which meant I had a single flight of stairs to climb. Halfway up I stopped to catch my breath. This was a pretty regular thing for me at the time. I’d spent the better part of the past decade destroying my body as I doubled down on my lifestyle as a raging alcoholic, and although I was now a year sober I still carried the physical toll of those years.

As I stood there panting in the middle of the stairs, the thought came casually: “I wish I could climb the stairs without getting winded.” I’d have all sorts of thoughts when I had to take these staircase breaks. “I need to lose weight,” or “god, when did I get so fat and out of shape,” were as common as any. On the surface this new thought looked about the same. But there was one key difference.

Up until that point, just about every single thought I’d ever had about my body in adulthood was based around what I wanted it to look like or what number I wanted to see on a scale. And I’d done all the things you hear about to chase that: dieting, exercising, starving myself, binging and purging. Each time, I’d compulsively hop on the scale several times a day praying the number would be small enough to make me feel fulfilled. But this new thought was different. It wasn’t based around what I wanted my body to look like. It was based around what I wanted my body to be able to do and how I wanted to feel.

In the following days, I found myself reflecting on how I had once been a four season athlete in my high school days. (Cross country in the fall, swimming in the winter and summer, track and field in the spring.) I found myself remembering the days of eight swim practices a week with a fondness and nostalgia that made my heart ache. I’d gone down this particular memory lane many times before, usually with regret. But now these musings had an underlying hum of hope. The seed of “I wish I could do this,” when watered by the knowledge of what I’d done in the past, began to grow into “I can do this.”

Later that week I did something I hadn’t done in a very, very long time. I set a goal.

The Broad Street Run has been a Philly tradition for decades. Every year, on the first Sunday of May, tens of thousands of people run the 10 mile stretch from one end of the city to the other. There are bands and DJs all along the course, and the whole vibe is festive. It was about seven months away. I opened my computer and registered.

It was a lofty goal, and at the time it felt impossible. But it gave me something to work toward. And I’m not one to back down from challenges. I’d done plenty of things that were seemingly impossible already, so what was one more?

I walked for one hour every single day that week. I didn’t run yet - just walked, but I did so with intention. It allowed me to start building a habit of moving every day. I looked up some different suggestions for training programs for novice runners trying to tackle their long race. All of them began with 3 mile runs about 12-16 weeks out from race day. Fuck, I thought. I’m going to have to train just to be able to reach the start of training. But I was determined.

The next week I started the Couch to 5K program. The first workout consisted of six intervals of running for 60 seconds, followed by walking for 90 seconds. I thought it seemed doable. I walked the mile or so to the Woodlands Cemetery, my first and favorite “gym,” and began. By the fifth interval of running I was struggling and fighting for every second. I kept my feet moving at something that was probably barely passable as jogging, staring intently at my watch, willing the seconds to move faster. I made it through the first workout (with only a little cheating of the run times) and I felt a sense of accomplishment. The program is designed to have you running three times a week, so two days later I returned to the Woodlands and repeated the workout. I cheated a little less, and was a little less desperate for time to move faster. The third workout, I didn’t cheat at all, and felt pretty good.

Each week got progressively harder, and by the time I was on week four (six intervals: run for two and a half minutes, walk for 30 seconds), I truly didn’t know if I was going to be able to do it. I didn’t think I could run for more than two minutes at a time. The workout wasn’t great. I hated every second of it as those old self-loathing thoughts and doubts crept back in.

Later that night, as I sat down with a bag of chips and a small tower of Oreos, I thought to myself, “Huh.... Maybe this is why I am struggling to run longer than two minutes at a time.” I’d forgotten that in order to do certain things, a body needs certain kinds of fuel. I’d also forgotten that existing in a body means being in a relationship. Healthy relationships require both asking and listening. I’d been asking more of my body in the past several weeks than I had in a long time, but hadn’t been doing much listening. So, I asked my body, “Am I even hungry right now?” The answer, when I actually let myself listen for it, was no. It was a mind-blowing discovery. I put back the chips and (most of) the Oreos.

I started to think about what I was eating the nights and mornings before workouts. I researched what kinds of food would be beneficial. I started replacing potato chips with roasted or baked potatoes. I started choosing berries over candy and greek yogurt over ice cream. I started intentionally planning protein into my diet every day. I never swore off the things I was replacing. I still eat ice cream, candy, and chips from time to time. But I stopped making them the staples of my diet that they had previously been.

As my workouts picked up and I practiced choosing better foods, suddenly it wasn’t even a matter of choosing the “healthy” thing over the “unhealthy” thing because it was the “right” choice. I was just naturally craving more nutritious options. I found myself looking forward to a really bomb-ass salad with all the added fixings on take-out night instead of fast food. I didn’t even notice it at first, but by the time I was doing four and five mile runs I realized my old go-to orders didn’t appeal to me. Just as the mental shift allowed my physical relationship with my body to change, so it seemed the physical shift was changing my mental relationship to food.

Race week arrived. I was ready. A few days before the race, my uncle - who is an avid life-long runner - texted me his well-wishes. “Good luck on your race this weekend! Remember, crossing the start line is just as important as crossing the finish line.”

I had reached the start line of this race, but I’d also reached the start line of a new chapter with my body and self image. I finished the race in under two hours, blowing away my own expectations. The day after the Broad Street Run I registered for a half marathon coming up that fall. I have been running regularly ever since, and last weekend I completed my fourth Broad Street Run.

My relationship with my body is one that I’m now an active participant in. We’re growing and changing together. As my confidence grew with running, I began to open myself up to other types of workouts. I gave spin classes a spin, but they weren’t for me. Kickboxing, yoga, and boxing, on the other hand, have become staples in my cross training regiment.

Today, I steer clear of admonishing my body for not looking the way I think it should. I thank it after every run or workout for the work it does. I listen for what it needs, and I ask for its input when I find myself mindlessly reaching for late night snacks - is it hunger or boredom? When I forget to do these things, my body claps back during workouts (or in the days following), and we revisit our respective needs and boundaries. In short, I try to be the best partner I can to my body. Like it or not, it’s the one relationship where breaking up or going our separate ways is not an option.

Since making my way to the start line of that first race, I have never once stepped on a scale outside a doctor’s office. I could not tell you what size pants I wear. The only time I’ve taken measurements was to order a properly sized sports bra from an online company. And I’ve also never once had to stop to catch my breath while climbing stairs. Mission accomplished.