Running in a shadow byProcsilas Moscas
If blind hikers can trek for months on end, why can’t I get my butt out of a chair?
Earlier this year, Matador Sports reported on blind hiker Mike Hanson’s attempt to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail, which I’ve been following since he took off in March. Currently somewhere in Pennsylvania (over halfway through the hike), Mike and filmmaker Gary Steffens have encountered bad weather and sickness, but they continue to trek on.
I also started following the news of Trevor Thomas, who is leading Team Farsight on a thru-hike of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail.
Photo by: Hamed Saber
Most people find these stories newsworthy because Mike and Trevor are blind. That is not to say that being blind should in any way prevent a person from completing something physically challenging; it just makes a difficult task even more challenging. But I also think it might be something else that draws us to these stories, and that’s the idea that “if they can do it, so can I.”
For me, that thought occurred one bone-chilling winter day when I randomly made the decision to run a marathon. I’d run a few 5ks in my time, but I wasn’t a strong runner, and I hadn’t actually done any running for several months. Within 24 hours I’d found a training program and signed up for a race the following August. So began my journey to train for and complete a marathon.
When I told people I was training for a marathon, most of them applauded my efforts but said that they could never run a marathon. My question to them was always, “Why not?”
I think a lot of people don’t give their bodies enough credit for what they are capable of doing. When we hear stories about hikers like Mike and Thomas, I like to think that, on some level, we realize that these people are humans first and athletes second. If they can achieve human-sized things, we ask ourselves, why can’t we?
I’ve met a handful of people throughout my life who have no good reason to get up in the morning. Their bodies are physically depleted from medical maladies, and were they to give up instead of keep trying, few people would fault them for it. When I spend time with these people, or I read the updates about Mike’s trek, it reminds me that I can do things that may seem impossible.
Photo byAmy
My marathon has come and gone, as have other races that I’ve participated in, and after every event, I let my body deflate into a pile of lazy skin. I struggle through an hour of yoga. I can’t find the motivation for an after-dinner walk. Working out loses its appeal.
Then the cycle to become an athlete begins again. I read about a fellow Matador Sports colleague’s experience in an adventure race or the story of a 72-year-old triathlete.
I read old journals I wrote about my own training, and I realize that I can hike or run long distances too, learn new physical skills, and attempt sports I’ve never played before.
It’s times like these when I realize we need to believe in what our bodies can do. They’re built to move and explore. It’s our minds that tell us what we can’t do. There’s something about the little voice in the back of my head that has me convinced that, even though I have a built-in machine to do the physically impossible, I can’t achieve physical greatness.
So shut up, voice. I can be an athlete too.
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11 Comments... join the discussion!
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Rock on Joel! Good luck and have fun!
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The mind-body balance is certainly the issue for the runner. Excellent concluding paragraph.
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JoAnna-
I loved this essay and it totally resonated with me. As a kid, I was pretty clumsy (still am) and I wasn’t a good performer athletically, so I was always picked last for team sports or games during phys ed classes. I played tee-ball for a while (a year, maybe) and was so accustomed to being the kid that everyone hated to see at bat. So the messages I received over and over and over were “You’re just not good enough. You can’t do this. There’s no way you can better.” And worst: “We don’t want you.”
There was never an adult to interrupt that narrative. What I learned was that my body somehow wasn’t good enough and that I wasn’t athletic. Everything was competitive- there were no lessons being taught about just enjoying the physicality and the possibilities of our bodies, which makes me profoundly sad today.
As an adult, I still struggle a lot with what those early experiences left me with and how they shaped me. When I read about other Matador editors snowboarding or heliskiing or marthoning or whatever, I’m always slightly in awe of them. And I always feel sad for myself, as if I can’t (or maybe just don’t know) how to get started… all of which is complicated somewhat by the fact that I had back surgery when I was 16 so I do have some real physical limitations.
But still….
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I know how you feel Julie. I never made it to first base when I played t-ball, and even in college when I was on an intramural softball team, I was only there to as a warm body. My job on the intramural flag football team was to stand perfectly still and let people run into me so that they would have fouls called on them. Yeah … no fun.
I think that’s why I generally gravitate toward individual sports – running, cycling, etc. This way, there’s no one else waiting on me. I’m the only one judging my abilities. I’m a pretty harsh critic, but if I can go just one more step, then I’m knocking that voice inside.
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Nice piece, JoAnna! My problem growing up was that I never had the composure to try really tough or scary-looking physical things, like triathlons, backcountry skiing, or rock climbing. I think it was always the fear that held me back. I was afraid of pain, of losing control, or of getting hurt.
I found what helped was to just do really frightening things until I got used to them and started to enjoy it. I think as long as you know you won’t completely panic, terrifying yourself is usually a good idea. Anyway, after the first time you do a deep dive or take a lead fall, you usually find out that it was mostly in your head.
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I think it often is in our heads, and doing something for the first time definitely helps alleviate some fears. But there are some things that are almost irrational, and that’s what I struggle with. Why can’t I jump off of the high dive? Why do I think I can’t swim a quarter of a mile? Why can’t I just put my skis forward and go down the bunny hill?
Once I do these things, though, there is definitely a sense of accomplishment. And as I do these things more often, it seems easier to try new things.
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Great piece Joanna! I believe it was Marianne Williamson who said: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.” I believe your remarks can really be made about a lot of things that some people undertake, but many people choose not to.
It’s that great leap of faith, jumping to the unknown and coming out of our comfort zone that scares us.
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Yes! I love this piece, Joanna.
I just quit trying with the ball sports after ninth grade. Making a ball go in any kind of goal – forget it. But making my body go towards a goal, that I can do. I never was a fast runner, and it appears that I’m also a slow biker, but I’ll plug along until I get where I’m going.
I heard a lot of, “I could never run a marathon,” too. Well, you could if you wanted to – I’m definitely not special. I might not advise you to run a marathon after running for 8 years, though. My knees hate me.
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Great article Joanna.
Valid point: ‘They’re built to move and explore. It’s our minds that tell us what we can’t do.’
I recently completed a marathon, for someone who hated/couldn’t run!
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Such a solid piece JoAnna, and one we can all relate to on many levels.
For me, I’ve always been a team player – soccer & rugby – for many, many years.
Once I retired from rugby, I’ve been struggling to find that extra push to be an independent athlete….as opposed to a team athlete.
Really don’t know what’s stopping me. I think my “short legs” excuse for not taking up running is beginning to run out its course.
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