especially because of those times when you stretch it out at the end, just take it up a little bit faster, feel the wind in your lungs, feel like you’re reaping all the training you’ve ever done, feel your heart pumping faster, your whole system operating at maximum capacity, the adrenaline flowing, making you feel alive, and you know that feeling’s going to stay with you for an hour after you stop.
That’s why I run.
Dianne, Dad, money
iRun because it helps me raise money for charities Frank Fotia, Ontario
It’s hard to remember exactly where and when it began, this crazy little obsession of mine.
How does a bit of running to stay in shape turn into a half-marathon, then a marathon, then an utterly non-negotiable part of every week, a bigger priority than sleeping or reading?
What was the turning point? When did I become a runner, rather than simply someone who ran? When did it go from an activity to being part of the definition of who I am? I ride my bike, I swim, I walk, I play other sports. Still, I don’t call myself a cyclist or a walker or a ballplayer. But I am a runner.
In 2003, when running was still just one piece of my fitness regimen, I figured I would try doing a half-marathon. It would give me something to train for and it would be a test of endurance. Lots of other people were doing it, so why couldn’t I?
For a novice runner who is attempting a new distance, whether it’s 5k or a marathon or anything in between, there is only one question: Will I finish? I remember having breakfast with a friend when I was approaching the end of my training. One day we would run together four times a week and finish races side by side. But at this time, I was a rookie and he was an Ironman, which is why we were meeting for breakfast instead of going for a run.
Still uncertain about whether I could run 21.1 kilometres, I told him about my recent 18k training run.
“You’ve got it!” he said enthusiastically. I didn’t believe him.
But on race day, I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and I ran farther than I ever thought possible.
Now I was a guy who had done a half-marathon. But I still wasn’t a runner.
In fact, that fall I walked the Terry Fox Run. It wasn’t that I couldn’t have run the distance, but I was with someone who wanted to walk, so I did too. Simple as that. Today, however, I would be wishing that person luck and meeting her at the finish line.
The next spring, I toyed with training for the marathon, or as I called it then, from the perspective of a half-marathoner, the “full” marathon.
Even though thousands of other people had done it, I wasn’t sure I could. I finally convinced myself to join a marathon clinic by settling on a giant exit clause: I could train for the marathon and switch to the half if I found it too hard.
Over the next four months, I soaked up every aspect of the marathon training experience. I did every prescribed run in the training program except for maybe two short runs I skipped because of a cold. I attended almost every talk at the clinic.
It was a time in my life when I need a fixation, a routine, a diversion. My sister had died only eighteen months earlier and my father was terminally ill.
And so I did one more thing that made me slightly more committed to the marathon: I turned my run into a fundraiser for the Ottawa Hospital, where both of them had received treatment. And before I knew it, I had raised almost $10,000. Backing out wasn’t going to be as easy as I originally planned.
I was encouraged by my training, but I still had my doubts. What if I hit this wall that I had heard about? What were the last ten kilometres, the ones we didn’t do in training, going to be like? What if I just had to stop? What if no matter how much I trained, I just didn’t have a marathon in me?
The clinic instructors provided a helpful talk about motivation. They told me to prepare for the point when the race would get incredibly hard, when my body would tell me to quit and I would have to keep going. Think now about what you will think about then, they said.
I came up with a plan: I would remember my sister, my dad and all the money I had raised in their names. That should be enough to keep me going.
“Dianne, Dad, money.” That’s what I was going to repeat to myself every three steps when I needed that push. “Dianne, Dad, money.”
At the start line, I reassured myself with the promise that tens of thousands of other runners have made before their first marathon: You only have to do this once. Check it off the list and you never have to run this far again for the rest of your life.
I remember the exact point when the race really began. It was on a long slow uphill stretch after a steep climb over a bridge at 32k.
I stopped running and walked for a hundred metres. “Dianne, Dad, money,” I thought to myself. Then I started running again.
I’d like to say that surge of inspiration was enough to carry me to the finish, that I felt like angels wings were lifting me off the ground, but I walked several more times. And at one point, I even rationalized stopping completely. What – is everyone going to ask for their money back, I thought. It’s going to a hospital, for crying out loud. It’s not going to me.
But I put those thoughts out of my mind and pushed on to 40k. My mom and aunt were standing on a bridge holding a sign with my name on it. That spurred me on for a few hundred metres.
Dianne, Dad, money.
I don’t remember much about the final stretch or crossing the finish line, except that I almost started crying. It was more relief than jubilation.
Just after the finish I ran into a friend who had completed many marathons. “Congratulations,” he said. “By the way, now is not the time to decide if you want to run another marathon.”
I smiled and didn’t respond. But I think I’d already decided.
I was back again the next year and the year after that.
I don’t know exactly when I became totally hooked on this foolish passion, when running became part of me instead of me simply being part of a race.
But I like to think the turning point was in those final few kilometres of my first marathon, when I drew on the inspiration of my sister and father and the dozens of people who believed enough in me to contribute a few dollars toward my race.
Somewhere on the long, slow uphill climb, I stopped doubting I could finish and started believing I was a runner.
A great running nation
iRun because it’s cheaper than playing hockey Eli Adamson, Ontario
To those who think this is a hockey country, I say Canada is a nation of runners. We’re home to thousands and thousands who train in some of the toughest elements in the world. We have a rich history of champions and record-breakers. And one Canadian is simply the greatest runner of all time.
True, we may not have won as many international track meets as hockey tournaments. And Canadians may not be the favourites at any of the major marathons. But this is still the country that sent Tom Longboat to victory in Boston and Donovan Bailey to a gold medal in Atlanta. And produced dozens of other great champions in between.
This is a land with as many as a million runners. That’s about double the number of hockey players. And many Canadians run all year round in one of the most extreme climates on the planet. Show me another country where you train for a marathon when it’s minus-30 and run the event when it’s plus-25, all in the same city.
Still not convinced? Consider this: when the people of this country were asked by a TV network to vote on the Greatest Canadian, the guy who came second (and should have won) was a runner. If you were to ask Canadians of any age to name their biggest Canadian hero, a huge number would name that runner. What other country (except maybe Kenya) can say that?
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