Running Down A Dream

I started training to run 13.1 miles in December, the day after I signed up for the Covered Bridges Half-Marathon, scoring my slot in the coveted race that sells out in minutes every year.

I had never run in a race before, let alone a half-marathon. As someone who purposely trains on back roads where I think nobody else can see me, the thought of running in a race, bumping shoulders with strangers, where I’d be listening to the heavy breathing of thousands of others, sounded bad.

But there was something about this race. They call the Covered Bridges Half-Marathon the best 13.1 miles in New England and I had to see for myself. I wanted to finish in under two hours.

So I started training.

I ran through a foot of snow, in sleet and rain, on mornings when my car was too cold to start, when it was too dark to see in front of me.

I ran in sub-zero temperatures, I fell down on patches of ice and I ran with scarred knees before the plow trucks started turning.

Strangers who passed by in cars gave me funny looks when they saw me — the only person crazy enough to be outside in the cold.

“You’re running today?” a neighbor would ask.

At the end of the hour I was outside, I’d return with patches of ice on my eyelashes.

It was a tough winter to be a runner, but I figured if I waited for the temperatures to creep above zero, I’d never be fast enough to finish in less than 2 hours.

There were many mornings I dreaded it and many mornings I asked myself if I was really going to trudge through a foot of snow while most people were still asleep.

“Is this worth it?”

I asked myself that question often.

I was freaking out. I decided before the race started that I was going to hate it. Group running wasn’t for me. On those awful training days, with my feet full of blisters and my body too cold to stand it, I wished I had never signed up for this half marathon. * Six months of anxiety-ridden training didn’t subside until a half-mile into the race on June 7.

I found the 8:20 pace group — a new edition to CBHM this year thanks to runners from the Upper Valley Running Club.

Mike and Nancy, the pace group leaders, were race experts. They told us how far there was to go, what our times were, when we were coming to a water station, where the slightinclines and hills would be. They told us when to watch out for potholes.

They were cheerleaders who pushed the 15 or so of us through each mile, they kept us positive when everything felt awful.

“Looking good, 8:20,” Mike would tell us.

On race day the temperatures were in the lower-70s. There was a slight breeze and the sun was shining. It was the perfect day. For the first time in six months, running wasn’t hard. It wasn’t stressful. The daunting 13.1 miles were fun, even. And the crowd wasn’t so bad, either.

“Let’s make some noise for 8:20,” Mike would tell them as we passed by, and then they roared. Some of them gave us high-fives.

The race took us down possibly one of the most scenic running routes I’d ever been on. As someone who grew up in Vermont, it’s easy to take for granted the hills covered in green grass that seem to roll on forever and the mountains in the distance that almost look blue — the stuff that tourists talk about. But pass by the cows at Billings Farm and Museum at 8.5 miles per hour, and run along the Ottauquechee River to where the water pours near the Taftsville Covered Bridge and it’s not hard to understand why people are fascinated by this place.

The miles flew by.

“You have 2.1 miles to go from here. You are strong. You are powerful,” one person from the sideline said.

Mike and Nancy encouraged us to pick up our speed at the end, to go find someone in front of us and match their pace. Whatever you do, don’t stop.

“You have worked so hard for this,” Mike told us. * I thought back to my first mile six years ago. It was mostly downhill, on a road in Burlington and my heart rate was so high that I could feel my pulse thumping everywhere through my body. The noise of my breathing was audible over the music coming from my headphones. My chest hurt and I had only managed an 11-minute per mile pace.

Finishing it was the most awful, most wonderful feeling ever. I felt exhausted and at the same time I felt strong enough to take on any challenge the day would bring.

One mile became two and then running wasn’t so hard. I went out with some life problem and came back with asolution. It became part of my routine. I ran to keep my sanity.

I remembered why I started running on race day.

I was prepared for this race. I was over-prepared. When everything in me was ready to stop, I knew I could keep going.

I crossed the finish line at 1:49:16 and I just wanted to keep running.

I thought of those too-early mornings, the funny looks from strangers, the blisters and the frozen muscles. My legs ached and my feet were tired. I was done, but I couldn’t wait to do it all over again.

Worth it?

You bet.