Five and time

It took me almost 10 years to become a runner. I used to hate anything beyond a quick soccer or squash sprint. Then, over the course of who knows how many sweaty, uncomfortable, oh-god-let-this-end, slow-down-or-you'll-die miles, I reached a point where nothing else felt like exercise, or meditation, or health.

It took less than a year of not being able to run for my legs and lungs to revert back to the same burn I used to feel doing time trials in college. But that decade of training for distance left a tiny legacy: the feeling that I really ought to run farther, that I genuinely want to. At this point, a few months after deciding that my abdomen can finally handle more than stairs, I can run about four miles at a tortoise-plus pace before discomfort (aka The Twinge) kicks in. It's not anywhere near the same kind of rush, but it's something.

It seemed like time to try a race. The idea of reinjury makes me very nervous, and The Twinge is an impulsive and unpredictable master, so I signed up for a 5K. That's 3.1 miles—half of a 10K, obviously, and 10.1 miles less than the second half of the San Francisco Marathon, the course I feel most attached to. It's shorter than my usual morning run, at least as of this month, but a year ago it wasn't close to possible. A year ago it hurt to walk to work.

This is how my brain spun it to make the short jog—in the marathon or half-marathon mindset, that's all a 5K is, a roll around the block—sound like an accomplishment. I'd never actually run a 5K before. It's a weird distance, like one lap of a track. You can't sprint it flat out, you'll crash way too soon. But if you take it too slowly, schoolkids breeze by you, giggling.

This 5K was inside the San Francisco Marathon. On Friday, I went to the race expo to pick up my official shirt and everything else sponsors throw in the faux fiber bag (best: smoothie coupon; weirdest: miniature bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, because real runners eat very, very small salads), feeling a little resentful about going to the Fun Run table instead of the serious Half.

The tent was full of wiry, tan families speaking all sorts of languages. The men had short hair and thin, clean-shaven faces; the women had strong calves and brightly colored visors. Everyone looked deeply healthy.

Yesterday, I didn't run. I tried to go to bed early, but the thing about 9:45 on a Saturday night is that my body has zero interest in rest. It decided midnight was more like it. Fun times.

This morning, I got to the starting line about half an hour early. It turns out the ragtag 5K runners are a different breed than the expo families. We come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, ages (toddler to ancient), outfits (spandex, jeans, wool sweaters), and accessories (fanny packs, backpacks, digital cameras). At two minutes till, a few serious-looking teenagers pushed up to the front. Everybody not sporting a fanny pack or a walker started bouncing on their toes. One gray-haired woman shuffled back and forth, punching her hands up and out, over and over.

Running in a herd isn't fun at first. Then comes the natural spread, and you find your small open place. The energy of the group shifts into a catalyst. So do the mile markers, the water stations, the hired hands clapping at prescribed spots with genuine, heart-twisting enthusiasm. The whole process is extremely organized, but it manages to feel like a spontaneous surge. Suddenly the city streets are full of people, thousands of them, all running in the same direction. It's clear there's a shared purpose to it.

Here's how a 5K feels to The Twinge and me: The first mile is nothing; the second mile is epic; the third is driven by the anticipation of stopping; and the last .1 has to be a sprint, even though it's probably a stupid idea, because I've sprinted the home stretch of every race I've ever run. There is nothing, anywhere, like a finish line.

I had a few moments where the run felt too long, like my ability and will have regressed to 10 years back; but for most of the time I spent moving, and for the rest of the day afterward, it felt like a blink. Next time I want it to take much longer for my eyes to close, then open.