Running for My Life . . . finally

When I was in Jr. High School, once a month in gym class we were forced to run.  No matter the weather or political climate, rain, snow, sleet or second coming – both sections of the gym class were trotted out to the football field – on special days – for extra humiliation -- the girls and boys gym classes would be joined together.  To make the activity more palatable, they would call it the “Fun Run” because, clearly, calling it fun would make it so.  All sixty of us would be lined up outside and instructed to run as fast as we could.  We were to run around the back field and then onto the public streets, around the large block surrounding the school, finally coming in at the finish line near the gymnasium entrance.  Small children and mothers in the neighborhood would line the streets watching us pass – waving (or in my case, laughing . . . ).  A parade of blue shorts and white t-shirts.  Upon crossing the finish line we would be given our time and told to record it in our permanent gym files – these times were then posted and comparisons were made.  I hated this.  No – hate is not strong enough.  I loathed this exercise.  I was not a runner – I was barely a walker.  It wasn’t that I was overweight, nor did I have asthma or other respiratory illnesses, I just wasn’t someone accustomed to moving my legs at a fast pace.  I was much more of a saunterer than a runner.  After a short distance I would find it hard to breathe, my stomach would migrate to my throat and I would become incredibly light headed.  It was rare that a Fun Run ended without me vomiting or at the very least, dry-heaving. 

Nothing brought out my insecurities more than gym class.  I felt scrawnier than most of the kids, I had absolutely no coordination or stamina – heaven help me in a game of Dodgeball.  There was not a single game at which I had a modicum of skill – unless you counted the game of avoiding eye contact with the coach.  Not to mention the fact that the locker rooms produced daily panic attacks.  So many naked bodies – white towels – showers – boys turning to men . . . pubic hair, the lack of pubic hair.  Jock straps.  For the most part the experience was not consciously sexualized – just terrorized.  I hated the coaches.  I hated their short shorts and their crew-cuts – the bulges and the hairy forearms.  I hated their whistles and their blatant favoritism.  I saw in their glances a clear distain, rejection and disgust at my nancy-boy nature.  As I crawled across the Fun Run finish line, wheezing and coughing up bile, I not only had to cross the line of the gymnasium, but cross it fully loaded with copious amounts of shame.

Needless to say, since that time sports in general and running in particular has not carried the happiest of thoughts for me.  I have never sought out opportunities to run (other than the occasional moment when being chased).  When it came to exercise I would opt for biking, swimming or using the low-stress elliptical machines – if I opted for anything.  A few years ago I discovered Bikram Yoga and decided that I had found my ultimate exercise passion.  I would go religiously four times a week – sweating like never before, fighting my battles within the 105 degree humid cave.  Yoga was much more my style of physical exertion. 

Enter my diagnosis of osteoporosis (a potentially long and tangential story . . . ).  Suddenly my doctors were telling me that I needed to do more weight bearing exercises.  I was informed that yoga, biking, swimming and elliptical machines no longer “counted.”  If I wanted to build my bones and prevent myself from looking like a Japanese grandmother working in the rice paddy before I was 40 years old I needed to change my exercise routine.  The best exercises:  weightlifting and running.

Awesome.

I had no problem with the weightlifting portion – I had lifted weights before and it was a good excuse to start paying more attention to my physique (what gay man doesn’t go through a body image obsession at one point or another?).  But the running – heaven help me.  I started off slowly – jogging until I about passed out at just under a mile.  There was no way this was going to work.  But determined, I plodded onward. 

One day a month and a half ago, a friend of mine challenged me to a fitness competition – we would each set goals for ourselves and at the designated date (February 18th) we would meet together and account for our progress.  In a moment of insanity, I set the goal of running 3 miles on the treadmill without slowing down my pace.  By this time I was running one mile three times a week at a relatively respectable rate – with no puking and very little wheezing.

Well, long story short, yesterday, one week ahead of target, in a glorious moment – with a perfect mixture of positive mood, perfect playlist and sheer determination, I reached my goal.  Three miles in just over 22 minutes.  With endorphins racing through my body, I was the king of the world!  I sent a boastful text to my friend and a proud update on Facebook.  I had conquered. 

My thoughts quickly flew back to that block surrounding CVJH and the many painful attempts I had made to finish what was probably a half-mile with a respectable time.  Somewhere in those long ago years, I gave up.  I told myself I could not – and I made sure that became my truth – and it stayed my truth for 25 years.  Amazing. 

It makes me wonder what other “truths” I have created for myself.  How many I can’t’s could similarly be transformed into I can’s?  A common theme for me is the influence of  mind over body.  And here, it would seem, is further proof – the phenomenon of self-determination – mental blocks becoming physical ones.  How would it be to discover that my limitations are only my limitations because I determine them to be so?  What if I stopped giving them power?  What if I said, “Screw you, internalized coaches, I’m running that fun run?”  What could I do?  What new abilities would I discover?  Who would I be then? 

An exciting and terrifying thought.