I was a runner. It defined me: the Gringa who ran. The woman in her 30’s who beat the pants off the younger woman, the one to contend with.
I ran: through crowded city streets, along country lanes surrounded by wild flowers and black and white cows, through the banana plantations of Honduras and Panama, along the windy busy streets, mountain trails and ocean paths.
I raced: the rugged mountain trails of New Zealand, the neighborhood suburban 5K’s of Cincinnati, the disorganized, free for all streets of Costa Rica.
I marathoned: the Master’s Ultra Marathon in New Zealand, the haphazard (not so sure the exact distance) San Jose Marathon, and the dream of every runner: Boston.
Running was as much a part of me as being a wife, a mother, a child of God. I have boxes of running logs, medals, certificates and race reports.
Running was a battle with exercise induced migraines. Yet, I ran. And I medicated. And I spend hours in bed.
Then I gave it up. It wasn’t worth the pain, the medication, the loss of normal life. In running I lost much of the enjoyment of being a mom. I gave up social events and survived many others, just holding on. I had to choose: to run or be around to see my kids grow up. I chose life.
Yet, still today, I long to run: to feel the wind at my back, the burn in my muscles and the high from pushing my lungs to their limit. I miss the sweat running down my body, saturating my socks. I miss the ache and pain of muscles. I miss the blisters on my feet and the heat radiating off my head.
I run a different kind of race today: a race towards my heavenly home. The injuries are different, the highs more profound, and the training still as intense. And, along the say, there is a crowd of onlookers cheering me on. In this race, I am not after medals or recognition; just a word from my Savior saying, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."