What the hell am I doing? I often supplemented the initial question with how on earth did I get here? How am I going to finish this? What if it's too hard? Did I train enough? Do I know what I'm doing? How will I keep myself going? Why are so many people so much faster/fitter/better than I am? Why is that man wearing such short shorts? So many questions, and so few answers.
And now, as I prepare to step across the threshold of another Start Line, I am asking myself that very first question again. But this time it's a different kind of run, a different kind of pace, and a different course all together. After ten years - ten years! - of contemplation, I'm going back to school to become a chaplain. In three days, I'll be at the "starting line" of a two year Master's program.
Most of the races and runs I've done were somewhat spontaneous decisions. I never had "run a marathon" or "run a 25 KM trail run" on my List of Things to Do Before I Die.
Consider:
First marathon: My mom and I went to an information meeting for a charity training program, listened to their talk for five minutes, looked at each other and simultaneously said, "Let's do it!!" We signed up, we trained, we carbo loaded, and we did it. Upon crossing the finish line I had one thought: Marathons? Yeah, one and done.
Boston Marathon: Second day at my new job and my boss tells me that the university has a team that trains for the marathon. She casually adds that no one from our department has ever participated. Before I know what's happening, words tumble from my mouth: "I'll do it!" I walk out of her office and promptly feel like kicking myself, but soon enough I'm excited about it. Excited and terrified, but for the most part excited. It turns out to be an amazing and unforgettable experience.
First trail run: "Hey, what are you guys doing next weekend? Want to do this run? It's called a trail run. I guess that means you run on trails?" We pile into my '96 Corolla early the next Saturday morning and drive to a State Park in Central Massachusetts. Most of the runners there are wearing race t-shirts dating back to before I was born. They look like they know what they're doing. We go along with the very small crowd and when we reach the start, the race director says, "Uh, okay everyone. I guess you can go ahead and start. Have a good run." We're off, through the woods, over the branches, and up and down the hills. We have a blast, cross the finish line drenched in sweat, and my friend takes first place. Trail running? I'm down with that.
Hardest trail run: There comes a point in the lives of many runners when they say, what else is there? What more can I do? How else can I beat up my body, challenge myself, and get an ugly t-shirt? A longer trail run! I happen to find one in Maine. It coincides with a long weekend and within an hour I recruit two friends who are interested in running it. We fax in registration forms and that's it - we're in. What seems like a few days later, we drive North, we run for miles and miles through the woods and over the hills, and we come home with wearable shirts, pint glasses, and serious bragging rights.
So there's a theme here...I have never really overthought registering for a race, or thought a whole lot about it at all. The process usually involves happening upon a race listing, feeling my interest spike, getting a few friends on board, and running.
I find myself now, at the starting line of a few years of school before embarking on an entirely new career, feeling a little bit like I feel at the start of a race, especially those races the likes of which I have not yet known. I've thought about chaplaincy for a long, long time. In ten years, it has never been nudged off of my List of Things to Do Before I Die. And so now, at long last, I'm doing it. And I am feeling a lot like I've felt at the start of those marathons and trail runs. What if I fall? What if it's too hard? What if I burn out? What if everyone else is more prepared or better than me? And what the hell am I doing?
I think I know what I'm doing. I think I know what I've signed up for and what I'm jumping into. And I think I might have a clue as to what awaits on the road ahead. I've read about it, talked about it, looked it up online and learned about it. I've even daydreamed about it and visualized it. I've trained for it. But just like I never really knew what I was in for when I signed up for a new distance or new kind of run, I don't really know what I'm in for on this path that lies ahead. Smooth, rolling hills? Grueling dirt paths and muddy trails? Breathtaking vistas? Will the route be clearly marked? Will I get lost? Will I stumble? Will I fall? Will I surprise myself with my own strength and grit? Will I smile at those near me and be cheered along by the quiet kindness of strangers and companions along the way?
I don't know, and the mystery of what will be is both nerve-racking and exciting. I try not to let myself think about stumbling and falling, feeling tired or bruised or simply unable to keep going. Instead I try concentrating on the beauty that can be found within the mystery of the unknown, the possibilities that await, and the story that is mine to write as I begin this new journey.
When I ran that first trail run a few years ago I was naively unaware of how hard it would be. Had I known the limits to which I'd have to push myself, I probably would have spent a very boring hour on a Stairmaster at the gym instead. But I would have missed out, and I would have missed out immensely - on the cameraderie, the exhiliration, the fun and the beauty of simply running through the woods on a beautiful Saturday morning. I'd have missed out on the adventure, the excitement, and the challenge of doing something new, something different and something unknown. I'd have missed out on the chance to open a new door in my life and discover a new passion, one that would bring me tremendous joy and happiness. Oh yeah, and I would have missed out on the free snacks and ugly race shirts, too. ;)