Racing Into Pre-Middle Age

Saturday marked my first race of the year, and as I navigated through the 7.4 mile course, I started thinking about all of the school track seasons I participated in. It doesn't seem that long ago that I was running around an asphalt track with my friends, hoping to qualify for the State Meet. Yet as I ran up the first of many hills last Saturday, I realized that my twenty year high school reunion is next summer.

Twenty years. How is that even possible? Wasn't it just yesterday that I was sporting ungodly, curled bangs and wearing a pair of green track sweats while riding a yellow bus to Hardin? It was during the sixth mile- right as I was smacking into the invisible brick wall- that I really began to contemplate the runner I was then compared to the runner I am now.

Then: I had a coach my freshman year of high school (when I was a slow sprinter) who directed us to imagine a knife wielding rapist was behind us as we left the starting blocks. Apparently that imagery would help us explode from them at a faster speed. Note: her yelling at me was motivation enough. To this day, I'm still a bit scared of her.
Now: I don't explode from the starting line because that would involve injuring the many people surrounding me, including the group of women who truly believe they are capable of walking eight minute miles and therefore register in that flight. Instead, at the start, I alert my right foot- the one that has race anxiety- that it's time to stop cramping because I plan to run like a Kenyan.

Then: Track season ran from March to May, and in Montana, that meant you could either be running on ice or in the scorching heat. During the latter, I hoped my lack of sunscreen would not lead to a track tan, which looks almost as dreadful as a farmer's tan, and doesn't compliment any prom dress...ever. The black biker shorts I wore beneath my green track shorts were solely there because all of my friends were wearing them and it was important to look the same.
Now: I lather on the sunscreen, wear a visor, and wish I'd have thought to wear biker shorts in order to cover up the cellulite that I'm attempting to hide from the course photographer.

Then: I ran into the school bathroom before the race and hoped there was toilet paper left.
Now: I wait in a porta-potty line that is at least fifty people deep and inevitably witness a group of clueless runners cut to the front, and in doing so, barely avoid a group lynching.

Then: I listened to nothing aside from the thoughts in my head saying important things such as; man, that girl from Livingston is impossible to catch and why hasn't he asked me to Prom yet, along with the voice of my coach shouting, "Run Melisser" as he noted that "after the first lap, it's all downhill."
Now: I run with an iPod because any course not allowing them doesn't appreciate the fact that I'm a pre-middle aged runner who has to listen to an eclectic mix of music including, AC/CD, Bon Jovi, Eminem and Taylor Swift, in order to motivate myself. The only voice in my head is saying, I paid ninety bucks for this torture? What a waste. Another hill? This is getting ridiculous. I'm seriously moving to Kansas.

Then: I finished the race with my girlfriends cheering me on, maybe even collecting the baton from me in order to finish the relay. I walked to the center of the field and collapsed from exhaustion with no table of bananas in sight. Good thing since I hated bananas.
Now: I finish a race and have the chip timer cut off of my shoe or removed from my ankle. I walk directly past the table giving away bananas (every race has bananas). I still detest bananas.

Am I am better runner now than I was then? Probably not. But I've learned that although running is physical, the dominating force is mental. It takes so much to motivate myself to put on those running shoes. There's always that voice in my head, the same one that wouldn't stop talking in high school, that is reiterating how I'm not strong enough to go another step. I have to ignore her opinions every time I go for a run, compete in a race, or beg my doctor for a cortisone shot.

Should I consider myself stronger than I was at eighteen? No. But at least I'm more confident and have better hair.