Distance: 3.22 miles
Time: 31:51
Pace: 9:54 min/mile
The memorable part of this run, however, didn't come from the run itself, but from something that happened during the run.
I frequent a lot of suburban neighborhoods on my runs. South Lexington has an abundance of them, with well-kept sidewalks and friendly people and modest little homes. Normally, it's the ideal place for a runner. But while running through one of these neighborhoods today, a car drove past me slow enough for a kid, maybe ten or twelve years old, to lean out the window and yell at me.
"Get a haircut!" He cried.
What the heck was this about? I had no idea who this kid (or the adult driving the car) was. I hadn't run through this neighborhood in more than a year. And I was on the sidewalk, minding my own business. Not to mention that I think I wear my ponytail rather well, and I don't think it's a look a lot of guys could pull off.
I had less than a second to think of a witty retort. And I couldn't help but smile as I yelled, "No chance!" In reply.
The car pulled into the nearest cul-de-sac, turned back the other direction, and drove away. Meaning they had gone out of their way simply to pass and harass the running guy with the ponytail.
Which brings me to the purpose of this entry.
I'm no stranger to voices telling me who or what I should be. When I weighed 230 pounds my sophomore year in high school, the heaviest I have ever been in my life, I got made fun of. I didn't get a lot of dates. And my self-worth hinged mostly on my perceptions of my own body.
So, over the course of several years, I started walking. Walking turned into jogging. Jogging turned into running. Running turned into a habit of buying short-shorts and expensive socks and vibrant, scientifically-designed shoes.
But one doesn't simply stop being a 'fat kid'. There are still times when I find myself looking in a mirror, wondering when I'm actually going to 'get in shape', why I don't log more miles, how I could justify eating as much as I do, et cetera. It's an inner voice, spurred by long-ago memories of exterior voices. It's lost most of its volume over the years, but I'd be foolish to say that it's ever going to be gone for good.
When my wife left me more than a year ago, there was no "working on it," no "we've tried everything, the marriage is unsavable," no "road to recovery". Just me, left in a pile of shattered dreams, leaving the mail of the woman who used to love me on her car once a month because she still hasn't changed her mailing address on all of her stuff.
Different voices emerged from the darkness. They were rooted in the old self-esteem issues of my past, but they burned with the fuel of rejection, hotter and stronger than I had ever known at any previous point in my life.
Last summer, during a session, my counselor asked if I "enjoyed my own company", when I turned off the internet and pulled myself out of my tasks and simply was with myself; if I liked myself enough to simply exist with myself.
I didn't understand what she meant. I didn't really think other people enjoyed my company; why should I?
Months of living, growing, drinking, crying, praying, and yes, running, led me to where I am now. The pieces of my life fit together more than they have in a year, thanks be to God alone. Though sometimes it feels to little too late, I now know that His voice, and the voices of the friends and family who really care about me, were the ones I should have been listening to all along.
I don't talk a lot about those cold, broken days. Hillary asked me the other day if I would ever consider blogging about the last two years of my life. She said that it's a really inspirational story, that a lot of people could benefit from hearing my story. Honestly, I don't like thinking about those days. So instead I run, and I write about running, and I teach, and I lead youth group.
But then I remember that there are plenty of other people out there being led by the same voices of inadequacy, self-loathing, and depression that led me for so long. There are people telling themselves they're not good enough, they're hopeless, they're at a dead-end from which there is no escape.
A word of advice from a guy who escaped: You CAN do it.
So drive on, black car. Keep taunting, kid in the passenger seat. My shoes are still going to lace up the same tomorrow. The first cup of coffee tomorrow morning is still going to be the most delicious thing I have ever imbibed. And, every time I get out there and log miles, I'm only getting better.
And I, under no circumstances, am getting a haircut.
Post-run hair. Gotta love it.
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