I
admit it - I did it purely for myself. Well, at first I did it because I’d lost a bet. After my best friend completed her ninth Tufts 10K, I bet her that if she would run the Boston Marathon, I would run Tufts next time. I posed this idle bet because I never thought she’d really do it. Guess what? She did it!
Preparing to make good on my wager, I began my training in earnest, and I quickly fell in love with the solitude, the fresh air and sunshine, the singing birds, and the capabilities of my thirty-eight-year-old body. During those first few runs, however, I couldn’t shake feelings of guilt about pursuing self-gratification. Wasn’t I supposed to be home taking care of my family?
My guilt crescendoed when, after one particularly long run, I returned home to soak sore muscles in a leisurely hot bath and left my “off-duty” sign posted a while longer. Lying in my Epsom salts, I heard Melissa, my threeyear-old, whimper, “Where’s Mommy?” My husband distracted her while I gritted my teeth and grasped the sides of the tub, torn between the desire for time by myself and the urge to comfort my child. In that moment, I understood that with each run, I needed to train not only my body, but - my mind - to allow myself this private time to seek the selfhood I was entitled to! Besides, if I were re-energized, I’d be better able to handle the demands of motherhood.
Indeed, my two daughters quickly adjusted to my long weekend runs. They’d casually acknowledge that I was leaving. “Going running, Mom?” Gina, my eight-year-old, would ask as she watched me lace up my running shoes. “Have a nice run,” Melissa would add.
I’d kiss them and leave, and they’d be all smiles, knowing this was a chance for them to be alone in the house, while Dad worked in the garden, one ear on them. (Mother Nature programmed men with far fewer guilt genes, and women are finally taking heed.) Moreover, I think they recognized that I came back from my runs nicer than when I left!
Finally, it was time for my first practice race. Off I went with a number pinned to my chest - my heart pounding behind it. My family cheered me on from the sidelines, and when I finished the race, they lunged to hug me, despite my sweaty body.
“Did you win?” asked Melissa. (I couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed that four million people crossed the finish line before me.)
“Sorry you didn’t win, Mom,” said Gina. (She’d noticed!)
“Girls, I finished!” I proudly announced, briefly explaining that this was a personal victory. Yet even in the excitement of my own triumph, I noted with pride that my daughters, at such a young age, accepted as quite natural that women can - and should - be winners. When I was a child, the message I got was that nice girls don’t compete.
Months later, I successfully completed the Tufts 10K, and instead of abandoning running with this fulfilled obligation, I surprised myself and continued.
Not too long ago, I ran my third Tufts 10K. Each has been as triumphant as the one before. But that year, the scene was more magical than ever. Melissa, then six, wore a running suit her sister bought her with her own money. Gina, then eleven and nearly my size, wore my commemorative shirt from my first Tufts 10K.
As I ran alongside six thousand other women, I thought of my two most loyal fans - my daughters - awaiting me at the finish line. With them was my adoring husband, who admits he gushes with pride when the starting gun fires and I run past with the pack. And that year, my best friend, sidelined by an aggravated injury, watched the race with my family. No bets necessary: I was running for all of us.
As I approached the finish line, my daughters jumped off the curb and ran to meet me. Holding hands, we raced the final tenth of a mile together.
Afterwards, I stretched my tired legs, wiped my sweaty face and chowed down on snacks. Meanwhile, my daughters animatedly and repeatedly announced that several children, including a seven-year-old, had run the race. I suspected what was coming.
“Can I run with you next year? Can I start training with you now? Can we? Can we?” I heard over and over again as I slipped out of my sweaty T-shirt into a dry one.
I considered their request: Training with them would mean giving up my time to rejuvenate and be alone amid fall leaves, poetic paths and singing birds. Training with them would mean being a teacher, as usual, instead of, for a change, the one being taught. However, training with my daughters would also mean that I have helped these two future women tackle obstacles, learn skills and take pride in their own accomplishments.
“Of course,” I announced. In part, I waged this idle threat because I never thought they’d really do it, but I knew if they would it could only be a positive step for all of us. So we went home and attempted our first mile run together. Guess what? They did it!
- Mindy Pollack-Fusi