The finish line was in sight. In just a few hundred yards I would arrive at my long-awaited goal. Suddenly a voice told me I was already there. “Congratulations, you have arrived at your destination.”
I had?
******
I crushed the alarm with my palm. 3:30? This is way too early for anything other than sleeping. I’m not sure I can do this.
But I hadn’t trained for nearly three months to sleep, so I pulled myself out of bed and began getting ready for my big day: race day. It was finally here.
After getting dressed, I grabbed a bagel and slapped some peanut butter on it with a flimsy plastic knife. Even though I wasn’t very hungry at this ridiculous hour, I knew the energy would come in handy later. As I ate, I pulled back the curtain and enjoyed the view of downtown San Diego. Everything looked so peaceful as the world unconsciously enjoyed the wee morning hours.
Moments later, as I stepped off the elevator with my three friends, I realized that most of the world wasn’t asleep; they were in the Hilton hotel lobby. In every direction people were posing for pictures, downing energy drinks, stretching, and, in their own unique ways, getting psyched for the run.
One of the most difficult parts of running is waiting for it to start. Although our corral wouldn’t actually begin the race until nearly 7:00 a.m., we showed up when they asked us to: nearly two hours early.
Finally it was time for my race to start. And I was ready. Of course, my motivation was in part simply to get warm. With no sun, the 50-degree temperature felt pretty chilly, especially in shorts and a tank top. The horn sounded, and I began my trek. Here goes nothing.
I started out at a somewhat slow pace, scared that my adrenaline would take over and I’d have nothing left for later. Though my ultimate goal was more than 13 miles away, my focus was centered on each step of the journey. The only way to cross the finish line was to put one foot in front of the other until I arrived at my destination.
Soon, just as I had guessed, my initial adrenaline rush passed, and I settled into a steady pace, relying solely on the endurance—both mental and physical—that I’d trained to acquire.
Around mile five . . . bam! I hit my first wall. The uphill grade that extended for nearly two miles zapped the energy from my body. And I still had eight miles to go. That’s when I realized this final run was a microcosm of my entire journey.
I started like gangbusters—running with purpose. But as the race went on and my excitement wore off, everything began to look the same, and I wondered if the end would ever come.
Over the course of the next six or seven miles I realized how important it is to “run” with purpose. Many times in my life I questioned whether I was even running on the right path, much less if I would ever get to some sort of finish line. Looking back, I see clearly that God had a plan. All I had to do was keep running.
Almost without warning I realized the finish line was less than a half mile ahead. At that same moment, my music was interrupted by a voice on my iPod, which, through a sensor in my shoes (thanks, Nike), had been tracking my progress.
“Congratulations, you have arrived at your destination.”
I knew I hadn’t. I could see with my own two eyes that the finish line was still in front of me. Yet at the same time the robotic female voice told me I’d already completed 13.1 miles.
I thought back to all those directionless moments I had questioned everything, and to the revelations I’d gained in hindsight. Then, knowing the end was near, I decided it was time to stop focusing on my feet.
As I entered the homestretch, I shifted my eyes to the sky—and kept running.
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Jimmy Phillips ([email protected]) writes from Bakersfield, California, where he is electronic media coordinator for San Joaquin Community Hospital. Visit his Web site at www.introducingthewhy.com. This article was published September 8, 2011.
