On bowling pins and other baggage: a lesson for late-blooming athletes
I was about ten years old, didn’t know the rules of relay racing, and couldn’t hear the garbled loudspeaker instructions above the clamor of eager competitors. And I was second in line. When my teammate passed me the baton, I froze in panicked incomprehension.
And then, for reasons I can’t explain, I threw the baton aside and picked up the object that marked my team’s starting point — a bowling pin — and off I went.
About halfway through my run it slowly dawned on me that I’d made a mistake, though there was nothing I could do except try to conceal the fact that I was the only player NOT holding the requisite baton. Nothing to see here, folks.
I don’t remember how the next player got back on track after my stunt. I only remember my face burning with embarrassment as I avoided eye contact with my bewildered team captain.
It was one of many formative childhood experiences that eventually calcified into a personal truth: as sure as I am a blue-eyed brunette, I am also unathletic.
My anxiety around sports only got worse during my adolescent years. There were days I would weep in fearful anticipation of the mental torments of gym class: the barrage of dodgeballs raining down on me like smart bombs; cringe-worthy “nice try” refrains; the rush to claim an inconspicuous corner of the changing room to hide from the other girls, all of whom were thinner than me.
A few years ago, I read an article about a man who ran his first marathon in his 40s. I felt momentarily inspired, then laughed and turned the page, deeming it impossible for me. Obviously he was some kind of athlete before he was a runner and definitely never made any bizarre judgment calls in a relay race.
I had discovered other physical pursuits as an adult that I enjoyed, like zumba and yoga. But somehow running felt categorically different, reserved for the natural athletes for whom physical grace is a birthright.
It wasn’t a grandiose agenda of self-discovery that fueled my spontaneous and unlikely entry into the world of running. It was the COVID-19 lockdown. I needed a solitary, outdoor exercise to replace my cancelled group fitness classes. It was part whim, part coaxing from the name “Couch to 5K,” suggesting even someone like me could do it. Plus there’d be no one throwing a ball toward me to catch or to dodge, no confusing foreign objects like a baton.
I was unsurprised and unphased when I could barely catch my breath during those initial runs; that was to be expected for me, a tender-footed newcomer in a baggy t-shirt among the more physically and fashionably coordinated.
What I was not prepared for was success. I was not prepared for the measurable progress in the days and weeks that followed, a steady and predictable improvement. It felt miraculous to eventually be running several minutes at a time.
It wasn’t that it was easy. But it was attainable. The initial boring, groundbreaking epiphany was the discovery that this is something my body is capable of. Is this what running is? Am I a runner?
I had to laugh when seasoned runners warned me against overexertion, for I am nothing if not prudent. I know that success demands a gentle build; that some sessions require repetition; and that I should never skip warm up. Something about the process felt comfortable, familiar. Not only could I do it, but maybe… Are there things I do naturally in the world of sports that others have to learn the hard way?
I had never considered that my plodding consistency, my natural way of being in the world, is its own athletic edge — my own brand of bodily wisdom. In running, the supposed pinnacle of athletic endeavors, these natural instincts served me well. Not only can I do this, but maybe I’m actually good at it. At some point I began to see the lithe, spandexed bodies on the trail not as superiors but as equals. They have their strengths, and I have mine.
It was cool to reach the 5K milestone, but as they say, it was all about the journey.
In spite of the epiphanies, in spite of the exhilarating upward progress, I didn’t have a single run that didn’t begin with the thought, I can’t do this. My body believed it, too. Without music to distract me, I would always stop short of my body’s capabilities. I couldn’t help but think of the movie The King’s Speech, when listening to music helped the king overcome his stutter. An antidote to overthinking.
Obviously, mind over matter has limits, but we cede more control than we need to, at best, or sabotage ourselves, at worst. We feel the stories we tell ourselves in our physical being, and too often, we get in our own way.
What I’ve learned from this is to give myself more credit and that holding fast to self-limiting beliefs is about as helpful as running with a bowling pin in a relay race.
