I just signed up to run the Brooklyn Half marathon in April. It will be my second time running the race. If I’m being really honest, I’m a little nervous. I took a long break since I got covid back in January. With only two months left before the race, I’m worried I’m starting my training a little too late. But, I’m aiming low. My goal is to finish it with a smile on my face. If it’s slightly better than last year’s record, even better!
If it sounds like I'm some kind of a hard core runner, I’m not really. I only hope I continue to enjoy running well into old age like my aunt-in-law who still runs everyday in her 70s.
Running is relatively new for me. It’s so new that I didn’t really start running until a couple of years ago, by chance, or you could say by necessity.
For someone who didn’t like running much, I kept making “running a marathon” into my bucket list, year after year. it seemed like a big hill I COULD climb, if I tried. And oh, I tried.
A year after a year. Half disillusioned and half overly optimistic, I dreamed big and disappointed hard. But it didn’t stop me from trying again the following year.
I signed up for the Nike running app bravely back in 2013. It definitely was going to be THE year, so I thought as I looked at my snazzy new running sneakers. The total run records of that year, I’m too embarrassed to share in public.
No matter what I did and how hard I tried to trick myself into thinking otherwise, running equaled a red face, sweats, and painful panting. In short, a complete misery. Clearly running a marathon WAS a big hill I couldn’t climb after all.
And yet, that was exactly the thing that saved me when grief struck and unraveled me.
A few years ago, I sat alone with my father in a hospital room as he died from cancer. I woke up the following morning and decided I had to get out of the house. I could barely breathe.
Once I started walking, it dawned on me it was the morning of the marathon. Long stretches of 4th Ave in Brooklyn were blocked off as a route for thousands of marathoners as they got off the Verrazano bridge and flooded the street as they made their way into Manhattan.
I wasn’t exactly up for the celebratory mood on the street so I’ve decided to take the subway to get out of where I was. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go except I had an urgent need to walk in peace.
Once the train started moving, I noticed the train was packed with the crowd who seemed to carry the happiness from above the ground. The contrast between what I was feeling versus everyone else was a little jarring.
I quickly got off at Union street station in Park Slope against my better judgment. Even with a bigger crowd, the street was in full blown marathon mode. Runners were passing, some serious and some high-fiving at the crowd. People lined up along the road to chant happy cheers.
I was resolved to make my way to the Prospect park at this point. After deftly zig zagging the street, I ended up standing right next to a group of spectators with the drums who shouted, “Keep going! You can do it!”
Instead of rushing off, I found a little spot where I could stand and look at the 4th ave and observe the runners and all this vibrant energy in full glory.
I was so tired, so I closed my eyes for a moment while the cheerful roar continued around me. Suddenly, what I heard was, “Unha, Keep going! You can do it! Unha!”
I tried to open my lids but the tears were suddenly filling the corner of my eyes. Afraid I would bawl, I kept them closed and stood in that corner until the rush of emotions passed.
Keep going, I can do it.
A day after my father’s funeral, I discovered that I was secretly adopted as an infant, upsetting my entire life narrative. (It’s a long story I’ll share some other time in the future)
Grieving over the death of my father, my sense of self and existence, I struggled as I tried to understand and looked for the answers to so many questions popping up in my head.
All I wanted to do was to curl up on my bed, but of course, life didn’t stop. I had to function at home and at work, requiring every bit of energy and will to get through the day.
One particularly difficult morning, I laid in bed unable to move. Then I started hearing a little echo from the past. “Keep going! You can do it!” I remembered how I felt standing in the middle of the marathon. “Keep going! You can do it!”
It was a cold but sunny morning with no wind. And I wasn’t sure why but I decided to for a run right there and then. I got up from the bed and put on some layers and I was off. After I stepped outside, I started running.
Instead of music, I put on interviews of Korean adoptees across the globe talking about their experiences. It was from an oral history project called “Side by Side”, created by a Korean adoptee film maker who grew up in Minnesota. There were about 100 hours worth of interviews he had conducted with Korean adoptees across the world: US, France, Australia, Sweden, and those never got the chance to be adopted. There were 100 different beginnings, 100 different lives lived, but we all shared one thing: life ruptured from the birth parents. I ran as I listened their stories, one by one. I didn’t stop even though my visions were blurry from tears.
By the time I stopped running, my lung was on fire but my soul let out a little sigh of relief.
So the next day, and the next day, I ran again with those videos playing in my ears.
When I heard the interview enough times to memorize, I would play Gymnopedie by Erik Satie on repeat as I pounded the pavement along the promenade near Verrazano bridge. As the music slowly filled my ears, I watched sunrises and sunsets while running.
As Debussy played, I ran past the old ladies taking a speed walk together and old Chinese men fishing, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, waiting for a pull from the fish on the rod. My dad liked to fish and sometimes it felt like I was watching dad’s ghost on the pier as I ran past him.
The profound sadness I felt seemed to get smaller each time I ran. So I kept running.
Then last year, I thought maybe signing up for a marathon. After doing a quick math, I realized jumping into the 26 miles as a first timer may just kill me. So I decided to go for a respectable 13 miles. The moment the credit card payment went through on the Brooklyn Half Marathon registration website was terrifying. Now I actually had to run it!
A few weeks before the marathon, I did the dry run of 12 miles, starting all the way from Fort Tryon park and slowly made my way downtown. I marveled at all the architecture, under the bridge, hidden spots I was unaware of. I’ve made a point to train in new places. Discovering New York City on foot in a way I have never done was magical.
When the day came, I was so anxious about having to use the porta-potty, I woke up extra early at 4am to have runner’s breakfast and make sure I had the time for all the bodily functions to take place.
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this! I could see the fellow runners heading towards the starting line as my uber was getting off the highway.
My blue checkered hat for good luck, sunglasses, fanny pack with guus, this strange jelly substance I was supposed to eat to keep my energy going. I stood among the hundreds of eager and expectant runners for the starting cue.
And then it was the time.
A few years ago, I stood watching the runners from the sideline as I was falling apart. But this time, I was the one running, high fiving the people who cheered on the side.
It was a wonder to see what our minds and human bodies were capable of.
Instead of the impossible mountain for me to climb like I once thought it was, running a marathon became a marker for my healing heart.