Spartan reflections

The voices. The voices we all have in our heads on some sort of replay. It has been an interesting week as I neared ever closer to my first Spartan Race Saturday. I know people say before you die your life flashes before your eyes. In my case taking on a giant feat I never thought was possible it was more the quiet replay if a lifetime of voices slowly entering in and out of my consciousness throughout the week as the race got closer.

When I was in elementary school there were no buddy benches. No anti bully movements. Childhood obesity was not an epidemic and there was no such thing as a "participation trophy". I for some reason, was reminded of lining up along the brick wall of Abraham Lincoln School as the token fat kid as some much healthier athletic children were choosing up sides for the sport of the day. I would be picked last. Somehow the  consolation prize for whatever team captain came up short. As I think of this I remember the eye rolls and the nearly audible sighs as I joined whatever team got stuck with me. Thus went all of school for me. I would be last to finish the mile. Wheezing as I climbed "hernia hill" in junior high to end that run faced by all of my thinner fitter classmates.

I thought about the bullying I went through. in my head this week I could almost hear the things that were said and done. I could hear the negative things said by family reminding I just would not measure up and a host of other things that I now know kept me improsioned in layers of fat and lifetime of obesity.

Saturday was a new beginning for me. Despite two years of training and innumerable life changes I feel like I am once again at the starting line of a whole new world of bigger things. My day started with 20 of my closest friends meeting Jack and I for breakfast for a big send off to the pinnacle of my training. We laughed and we ate and I could hear the laughter much louder than my previous prison of negativity. As Jack and I took off for Boston, as is often our way, deep discussion ensued. His future, the election, and treading ever so lightly into what our next race might be provided we survived this.

As we parked the car we were engulfed in the history of Fenway. The neighborhood surrounding not much different than the vibe of my beloved Wrigley. We could hear the music from the stadium, the sun was setting and the lights coming up in the stadium itself. Ultimately we found ourselves it the tunnel with a four foot wall standing between us and the starting line. Finally, it was our turn. We hoisted it over the wall and took off with 13 other runners most of whom sprinted out of the tunnel and onto the field. We did not. In that moment, despite the sprinting runners poking my crazy competitive nature I found myself saying to Jack,"I am starting at my base pace and running my own race." He just smiled as he knew I was trying to convince myself of this. Later as we passed most of these runners I would find that strategy to be useful. Up and down, crisscrossing the stadium at times just running, at times, carrying sand bags or a five gallon jug of water at others. There would be the z wall I came off of and had to do my burpees. Jack did them with me despite making it across counting them out and encouraging me every step of the way. There would be the box jumps I have not done since I broke my hip and scaling a 15 foot cargo net despite my horrible fear of heights, the run outside the stadium along the upper deck walkway where we could look at the night Boston skyline and see for what appeared to be miles. Then there were walls. The four footer at the start was the shortest. They got taller as the race went on, the last being ten feet. A ten foot wall. No rope. Just this gigantic wall that seemed impossible. Even at 5 ft 10 the wall looked huge. A fellow spartan stopped to show me how to do it and before I knew it I was over. The final obstacle was hanging heavy bags to push through. I channeled my inner black belt, as I trained in martial arts for eight years, and emerged sprinting faster than I ever have crossing the finish line throwing my arms around my Batman Jack and bursting into tears. It was an end to the negative voices that trapped me in a sea of obesity for decades. As it turns out, those voices were wrong. I am capable of so much more. Having the medal around my neck was surreal and I am almost afraid to see the professional pics in a few days as I am sure my face is tear stained and wearing a look of disbelief. Seeing my own son's pride in me and uttering the words,"yeah mom. We did that " was just indescribable.

As we reveled on the way home, our excitement was overshadowed by news there were gunmen at the mall where he worked. Shots fired into the Hollister where he is employed. A busy Sat he normally would have been there but was with me instead. We began to consider all the things that had to happen to keep him safe today. I had to be fit. I had to be at a place where we could do this race. He had to be fit too. He commits to training with me two days a week now. Two years led up to this moment. It is overwhelming that he was supposed to be there.

So many emotions we could not even fully process, especially me. Joe DeSena who invented the Spartan Race always says, you will know at the finish line why you do this race. I certainly knew some stuff in my sobbing moment at the finish line, like a lifetime of obesity, bullying and negativity was no longer permanent, but, more importantly, what I figured out in the aftermath was I have so much more to discover. As I turn 47 today I now feel Saturday's finish line is now my starting line. Jack and I spent the day texting to work out our next races. It is time to take on more. Spartan Winter Sprint is already committed, but more importantly and scary...Spartan Super Chicago here we come. As always today is a new beginning. The best is yet to come.