I was 6 months into my journey when one small thing sparked the start of my seismic shift as to how I measured success.
I signed up for a 5k.
Doesn’t seem monumental. People do this every day. There are people who run marathons. Who run ultra-marathons. Complete triathlons. Compete in the Olympics. Hike Everest.
For this 51 year old, this was my Everest.
I hated gym as a kid. I was forced into the school uniform as a chubby, pubescent middle schooler, back in the day when there were no participation trophies, where teachers used red ink all over your papers with abandon, and if you did something wrong, you were not only called out for it but most likely publicly humiliated in front of the class. This was also the days when parents were firmly on the side of the teacher, so no support animal or group therapy for me. Unlike those who wear the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, I wouldn’t say this environment was a better way to go. I remember these things, because they sting with a sense of worthlessness. Those scars run deep, even if time dulls pain.
My gym teacher was a tall, beautiful woman, athletic and graceful. She was also scary. She took no shit. I still remember, 40 years later, that we were expected to complete various gymnastics. I clearly remember lining up, waiting my turn to complete a somersault or attempting to vault over the horse. I made it my mission to go to the back of the line rather than complete these tasks. A gymnast I was not.
This experience left me with a feeling that I was not an athlete, either.
This feeling persisted, although I loved to swim, ride my bicycle, and ice skate. I even took figure skating lessons, which I loved, in my early teens. Yet, “athlete” was not a label that I saw myself wearing. Certainly, not a runner. I always struggled through running that mile required in Junior High Phys Ed. In high school, I took the required credits by signing up for aerobics, staying towards the back of the crowded class and not excreting a single drop of sweat. There was no way I would ruin my 80’s hair or perfect cat eyeliner that I worked very hard on that morning, thankyouverymuch. In college, I completed my required credit by taking a bicycle class, because the bowling class was already full.
When teaching ended for me in June of 2018, I had promised myself to start exercising. I knew I wasn’t going to give up on myself, and I began, albeit slowly. I walked. My walks grew longer and longer distances. I hiked in the woods near my house. My attitude towards movement changed, and I enjoyed getting outside.
But, I was no runner.
Until I made a decision that maybe, just maybe, I could be.
I signed up for the Steven Siller Foundation’s Tunnel to Towers Run in NYC. It was slightly longer than a 5K (3.5 miles), my school’s band participated, so I could take a yellow school bus to the start of the race instead of worrying about how to get there, and the race itself had an emotional, motivating back story, especially for a New Yorker, and a Staten Islander in particular.
According to the Steven Siller Foundation’s website, “The Tunnel to Towers National Run, Walk, & Climb Series was created to retrace the final steps of Stephen Siller, a New York City firefighter (FDNY) who lost his life on September 11, 2001 after strapping on his gear and running through the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel (formerly known as the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel) to the Twin Towers.”
First responders from all over the country participate in this race, which has grown to over 30,000 participants since its inception. Some run in full gear, which ranges from an additional 45 pounds to over 70 pounds. The race enters the Hugh L Carey Tunnel, which connects Brooklyn to Manhattan, then continues up the esplanade, and through a park area and ends a few blocks away. The tunnel itself is almost 2 miles, so you would continue running for over a mile and a half once you exit.
My friend Tish, signed me up and bought the bib with the chip. A chip times you from start to finish, so you could calculate your pace. I was certain that this was a waste of money; why would I care about my time? I just needed to finish it. Now I was placed in Wave A, the first group that goes out, with all of the real RUNNERS.
So, now my brain had 2 months to start worrying about things, over and over again, and when one worry was over, I would insert another. This was my first ever race, so I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I spoke with my friends who ran, asking questions which I am sure sounded inane, but until you experience something, it’s so hard to quell the inner voice which screams “I can’t.”
I worried about how I would feel running through the tunnel, the one I have only recently screwed up the courage to drive through.
I had decided that for my fiftieth birthday, I would get over my fear of driving to Manhattan. I had never done so, even though I had lived in one of the boroughs of NYC for my entirety. No more letting fear win.
Yet, here I was doing just that.
Would the tunnel be claustrophobic? Would I be able to keep up with the real runners? Would I be able to finish? Were there places to go to the bathroom? Would I be able to hear the music that I brought with me? Would my headphones work? Would my phone run out of battery?
Turns out, I worried about the wrong things.
On the day of the race, I pinned my bib to my running shirt. I drove to my school with my friend Tish to board the yellow school buses packed with 50 of our band students and a number of teachers, also running. We drove as close to the start as we could, in downtown Brooklyn. The bus let anyone running disembark, and continued its journey to let the band kids off by the esplanade to set up.
The sheer numbers of people were overwhelming. As we walked towards the start, people were milling about everywhere. There were hordes of people lined up at the porta-potties, so that was where we headed.
I have always been squeamish about public restrooms, with portable toilets at the very top of my skeevatz list. This is something I was forced to get over. When you are walking 5 miles, or hiking in the woods, or running a race, privy privileges are catch as catch can. So, I rolled with it, and learned how to hold my breath for as long as it took to finish my business.
We headed off to find wave A, the group we were part of because we sprung for the chip. The race was run in groups, or waves, emblazoned on our bibs. We walked past thousands of people, past signs with letter J, I, H, G, F, E, D, and C.I hesitated to go up to Wave A. I was worried I would hold up people with my speed, or lack thereof. I went to the back of Wave A, right where it met Wave B. So, paying for the chip gave me a much better starting spot, and was worth every penny. Looking back, I should have just planted myself firmly in the middle of Wave A, a mistake I would be sure to correct the following year. Clearly, I felt I did not belong with anyone who considered themselves a runner.
I doubted myself.
Tish went towards the front with another colleague of mine, and I lost them in the crowd. I laced and re-laced my shoes. I stretched. I looked around, and was amazed by the number of firefighters, running in full uniform, all around me. They came from all over the country. I figured if anything happened to me, I was in good hands at least. I was nervous, but I was doing this thing.
The race began, and I started jogging around a corner, towards the entrance of the tunnel. I had run/walked a few 4 milers to train, but I did not realize adrenaline kicks in and propels you at a faster pace than you had been previously running. I had my music in my ears, and the minute I entered the tunnel, I heard the piped in tunes, and realized my earbuds were superfluous. Off they went.
The tunnel was well lit, with police officers stationed throughout. The two lanes, used to cars on them, were separated by flexible poles. I ran on the left of those poles, and when I needed to walk, I moved to their right. Back and forth, back and forth. The men and women in gear propelled me to run farther, as did the idea of running in Steven Siller’s footsteps. I ran. I walked. Then I ran again. It was a lot hotter than I expected, another worry I didn’t realize I should be prepared for. You don’t know what you don’t know.
The tunnel seemed to go on and on and on. Until the incline.
When you drive somewhere, you really don’t notice small inclines. Small inclines in a car are big inclines on foot. Holy hell. I trained by running literally at sea level. Flat, flat, flat. The incline was something I was not ready for, yet here it was. It was definitely a higher grade than I was used to. I walked that bad boy. I walked fast, but I walked.
Then I saw it.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
I decided to run out of the tunnel, so that’s what I did. I ran towards the brightness, with everything I had. I mustered my energy and kept going. I edged towards the light, made it out of that tunnel to the other side and then immediately got punched in the stomach.
What I didn’t know was that upon my exit, I was greeted by hundreds of firefighters in their dress blues, each one holding huge pictures of a first responder whose life was snuffed out on 9/11. I had no idea, and I was not ready to see this sight. They were thanking each and every one of us for running, and it was so overwhelming that my eyes swelled with tears, my throat began to close, and I was having a difficult time breathing. I walked to the water station, a few yards away, and just had to stop for a few minutes until I composed myself.
You see, 9/11 is a day of infamy for the entire world, but even more so for a New Yorker, and the connectedness is even stronger for a Staten Islander. 274 Staten Islanders died that day, many of them firefighters and police officers. I taught at a school on Staten Island’s South Shore since 1997. Many of my students had parents who were firefighters, police officers, and sanitation workers. Blue collar, salt of the earth families, whose lives were forever changed that day. I taught 2 students who lost parents; there were 4 in total in my school. I think of them often, still. Colleagues lost loved ones; brothers, uncles, cousins. My ex-boyfriend lost his brother. A fellow student from my freshman year of high school perished. A current friend of mine lost her husband, leaving her with an infant to raise alone.
Everyone knew someone.
Seeing those pictures, the lives taken, murdered, was a feeling I find hard to put into words. It literally took my breath away. No matter how much time has passed, it will always feel like yesterday. I remember every second every moment of September 11, 2001 clear as day.
So, for all of the worries I had, I wish I had known about what was to greet me at the exit of the tunnel, if only to be a bit more mentally prepared.
After pulling my shit together, I continued to run. The streets were lined with hundreds of spectators, from firefighters to students to people holding signs. I realized I still had about a mile and a half to go. I ran up West Street, cutting over to the Battery Park Esplanade. I was slowing down, but there were cheerleaders cheering and bands playing, and they actually spurred me on. As I neared the finish line, I saw Tish yelling at me to finish, and that’s what I did. I crossed that finish line and I was incredibly proud of myself.
I learned a lot from this first race. I appreciated the bib with the chip, because I was able to be ahead of 90% of other people, making it easier to finish first and exit first. Turns out, I did care about my time. I finished the race in 46 minutes, so I ran a 13:14 mile, even with my stopping for water and to regain my ability to breathe. I know what greets me upon exiting the tunnel, and making me better prepared for the next time.
And I know I can finish, because I am a runner.
And that was the beginning of the seismic shift from worrying about the number on a scale to measuring my worth through accomplishments of the more athletic variety. It began with the little rumble of a 5k, but there was more over the horizon, and into my future.
What a difference the next year would make.
Productive Midlife Crisis 