Unit 1 PWS

When I was 11-years-old, a friend of mine convinced me to join our middle school’s cross country team. At first I ran because my friends did, but I later developed an interest. I never came in first, or even tenth, I rarely won a medal that wasn’t merely for participation, my name was never in the sports section of the local newspaper, I hated going to practice every evening, and I certainly wasn’t a star athlete. But running did something for me. Every Saturday morning, instead of sleeping in, I’d put on my hideous blue uniform, pack my bag full of granola bars, water, and fruit, and drive nearly an hour away just to cross the finish line in the rear of the pack. I hated every single minute of those races: beforehand, when my friend (who was actually very good) received a personal pep talk from the coach, during, when I was always three strides behind the same girl, and after, when awards were being handed out and I was still just trying to catch my breath. Yet every single evening I went to practice, and every weekend my scrawny legs somehow carried me over three miles of hills.

So why did I do it? To be honest, I have no idea. Fall after Fall I showed up at the local park for conditioning, never understanding why. One by one, my friends all left. Except for the one I was constantly compared to, that was more amazing that I could ever hope to be. It wasn’t until my senior year, seven years later, that I finally appreciated all the sport did for me. That same friend had a stress fracture and was in a boot. The regional meet came up, and she wasn’t going to run until our rival team discovered that, without her, there wouldn’t be enough girls competing for them to place. She surprised us all when she decided to tough it out, over three miles in the rain. But I surprised myself that day. I crossed the finish line nearly seven minutes faster than I'd ever run, and about ten minutes ahead of her. When I saw her heading through the chute, I met her at the beginning and ran the 200 meters to the finish by her side. I still didn’t win a medal— the most I got was high-fives and pats on the back from my teammates and coach—but I learned that I wouldn’t be me without having run three miles every Saturday, not including practices, for a quarter of a year for nine years. Now, I know what it means to persevere through the most difficult of situations and how to manage my time efficiently.  I eat healthy and exercise at least three times a week. And most of all, I am in the (slow) process of training for bigger races, with the hopes of completing a marathon someday.  Looking back on all that time I thought I was wasting in “misery,” I am truly thankful that I stuck it out. 

I live for the mornings when I can lace up my neon-pink shoes and hit the pavement, but what does that mean to you? Get out there! I dare you to run a lap around the nearest high school’s track, or for ten minutes on a treadmill, or even just one mile through your community. You will hate it, every second of it, especially if you've never run before. But when you finish, and you see that you’ve reached your simplest goal, you’ll see what running can do. You’ll eat healthier, even if just to assure your run wasn’t in vain. You’ll feel more awake, more focused. Your legs will become stronger, your arms more toned, your lungs fuller, your heart more efficient. All you have to do is run for thirty minutes, three times a week— time that you would’ve spent in front of the TV or computer anyway.