Seventeen Years of Perspective

I remember May 3rd as my birthday because, well, it’s my birthday. But I also recall it because, in 2007, it was my first training run for the Nike Women’s Marathon, which launched Run Like a Mother: The Book, which in turned launched everything else around Another Mother Runner–and why you’re reading this now.

Thanks to the Wayback Machine, I was able to find the post from the Runner’s World archives. In my head, I wrote this poetic essay about the beauty of starting to train for a big goal. In reality, I wrote <300 words, most of which are unremarkable, save for the fact that they bring me back to a spot in time exactly seventeen years ago, when I wasn’t exactly kind to myself in re: my running.

Of course I didn’t realize how good I had it then–do we ever?—but I also wince a little bit at my focus, which was mainly on pace and calories burned. It was genuine Dimity for sure, but, I’d like a chance to redo it.

So today, I’m giving myself the gift of a little rewrite; just as I shared those words as my truth back then, I’m happy to share an updated version today.

I wish I had a pic of the first marathon training run, but I think I had a blackberry in 2007. Instead: a polished pic from our Runner’s World feature. (I loved those marathon mom shirts, BTW.)

May 3, 2007: From the Marathon Moms Runner’s World Blog

I turned 35 today, which also happened to be my first official marathon training run. Both good reasons to celebrate, no?

I was in Boulder for work, so I headed out on an unfamiliar trail for a 45-minute run. The first 10 minutes was a steady climb, which wasn’t exactly optimal: my running pace is embarrassingly slow to begin with—so slow, I don’t want to print it here, for fear Runner’s World will renege on this blog—that once you throw in a long climb, I may as well be walking.

I kept my feet shuffling, though, and made it up the hill and continued on. About halfway through the run, I was a mental mess: With both my jaw and fists clinched, I was worrying about my pathetic speed; where I was and how to get back home (my navigational skills are slim to none); if I’d twist an ankle; how long I’d be out on the trail, with a sprained ankle, before a mountain lion saw me as easy prey.

So much for a celebratory run, I inwardly chastised myself.

So I purposefully unwound my jaw and flattened out my hands, and started counting my steps: my moving meditation that takes me out of my head and into my legs. I started to relax. I realized that, to conquer 26.2, I have to start somewhere, and, all things considered, a trail run in Boulder isn’t a bad place to begin.

I clomped back down the hill, and cycled through my watch, quickly past my average pace and straight to the calories burned. 522. Good enough for a second piece of chocolate cake tonight: reason enough to celebrate.

Seventeen-ish years later, and the smile hasn’t changed. As long as I’m active, I’m (usually) smiling.

May 3, 2024: A Rewrite with Seventeen Years of Perspective

I turn 52 today, which also happens to be a day I’m planning on going for a long hike because one of my sweet spots these days is in nature as I move forward. Both good reasons to celebrate, no?

I got to run for nearly three decades, and for most of those years, I cared too much about my numbers. Pace mostly, but calories burned too. If the former was off, at least the latter gave me latitude to eat my feelings. My head stored ideas of what qualified as fast. In 2007, any mile that started with an 8 was beautiful; anything with a 9 was acceptable; anything with a 10 or higher turned my run from good to bad. I thought if I could hit impressive numbers consistently, I would feel like a real runner. I would no longer worry that my editors at Runner’s World would look at me and wonder how I’d gotten a gig there.

As I loped around suburban streets most mornings glancing at my Garmin way too often, endorphins lifted me above a depressive fog that surrounds me as naturally as morning steam rises from a pond. For two beautiful and naive decades, I was able to have my (birthday) cake and eat it, too. Thanks to my fresh-ish legs and ego, I kept most of my runs at an average pace that I thought validated me as a runner.  Although I inherently knew I relied on the mental boost of the miles, I was pretty ambivalent about them. If I had to choose between a run that would be “impressive” enough to put on Strava and a run taken solely to feel good inside, I’d choose the former without a second thought.

Then chronic injuries started to pile up, and running fast was no longer an option. Running itself was questionable. I no longer had the luxury of caring about splits: In fact, all I cared about (panicked about, actually) was how I could maintain my mental health without the linchpin of running.

Time is a universal salve. While I still—and will always—crave running, what matters the most is that I continue to move forward. Just as I did when I was running, I count my steps as I hike: that moving meditation still takes me out of my head and into my legs, a space where I know, no matter how old I am, I will feel grounded, validated, and content.

I still glance at my GPS every time it beeps at a mile completed to check the time, and I won’t lie: There’s still a sliver of judgment there. Could I have gone faster? How does it compare to the last time on this trail? But these questions, in the context of a lifetime of thousands of miles, are very small. Nothing, in other words, like the fat slice of carrot cake I’ll celebrate with tonight.