Backstretches

As any of my former track coaches could attest to, the longer distance races were not my specialty. My high school coach often joked that he would need to pull out a calendar to time my quarter mile. As I progressed to the 800m “dash” in college, I did so with trepidation because it hurt. Whether I ran it in 3:03 or 2:23, the pain always met me along the way. The fear subsided as I grew in confidence that a) I wouldn’t die. b) I could improve each time. c) I only had to run it 2-3 times a year. d) The 800 is way easier than the 400. (It’s not logical and highly disputed by those who run the shorter race, but let them enjoy pools of lactic acid in their butts.)

There is one stretch of the 800 that required a certain amount of extra focus, desire, and guts. At the 500 mark, with just 300 to go, one is faced with a seemingly endless straight backstretch. Due to track construction methods, this stretch is often into the wind and lacking any sort of stadium area for cheering. It is here that one realizes how much more is left. It’s as if the 800 has started over. For me, a curve girl, the straight track simply felt like a desert without an oasis. But of course, once I made it to the corner, I had but 175 meters to go and an end literally in sight.

Why bring up this now, you might ask? A valid question especially since I’m no longer training for such short races but instead want to tackle 26.2 miles. A marathon is just slow, endless and somehow thrilling in its own insane way, but not a proper analogy at this point in time. No, the 800 race reminds me of my current life.

Mac and I have worked out a system so that we’re both as productive as possible (he is succeeding way more than I am) and still attentive to each other despite living in different cities. Every other weekend we visit each other, enjoy a nice dinner or go to a show, and catch up on SEEING each other as we share stories and make plans.

Well, as I’ve come to notice, this is like running an 800 with that middle weekend posing as the looming backstretch. The two weeks fly by when we’re both busy, running the curves I might say, and living for the moment. But the lactic acid build-up and long straight stretch always greet me on the weekend. I know that I’m half way there, but tell that to my heart. Finally on Sunday night, I realize how close we are to reuniting. I’ve hit the curve, see the end in sight, and can’t wait to collapse into his arms.

Like the 800 races I ran, I know I will survive these relationship races. I find way too much joy in a heptathlon and in Mac to let this one little portion of the event keep me down. So instead of looking at my calendar to cross off the days, I’m going to hit the gym and my knees in prayer so the backstretches become a strong part of my race.