A runner’s high – The Manila Times

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• Campus Press
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WE do crazy things when we’re lost and broken, don’t we? On the first week of November 2016, I signed up for my first ever 22-kilometer run. At that time, I did not know what I was getting into, and my reasons for joining were not clear to me at all.

The only thing that propelled me to run was my anxiety and an ambitious way to escape a routinary lifestyle, which only revolved within the walls of our home and the hospital, where I work as a registered nurse. Never mind that I was heavy then and out of shape, and the only thing that I can bring to the racetrack was a jaded heart and ego of an ex-athlete.

For years, I was not in a great place. There was a dull ache and hollowness in my chest whenever I think about the art of moving again. I was an athlete for the most part of my student days and was engaged in several sports, even earning a black belt in Taekwondo at a tender age of 11.

Somewhere along the way, I became disengaged with my body, apathetic, lazy and depressed. That led to setting aside my love for sports.

I thought for a time that it was futile to continue and not worth my time anymore, especially now that I was already starting my life as an adult. It was a different story when I was in elementary and high school when, as a member of the varsity team, competing was all that mattered, as if my life depended on it.

I desperately tried my best to train for three weeks before the race. I knew that I was pressed for time and did not have the proper time-frame training for a half-marathon. I was even eating so much processed food.

Because I did not take a leave from work, I had to make the most of all the time I had. There was no looking back, as I had already paid for my registration and the race kit was already on its way. In the first few days, I was huffing and puffing and barely making it to the 2-kilometer mark.

Because of exhaustion and cramps, I found myself sitting dejectedly on the gutters of the street, as I watch joggers come and go. I realized how much years of neglect in proper nutrition and exercise took a toll on my physical capabilities — a hard pill to swallow, but pride without hard work is just futile fanfare.

Came the day of the race — the day that I was dreading and excited about at the same time. I woke up at 1 a.m., showered with cold water enough to awaken my senses, and stuffed my mouth with spaghetti and bread as part of my carbohydrate loading. I wore my singlet, pinned my bib with race number and laced the strings of my shoes with D-tag.

This was the day that would change my life, and even if I felt physically inadequate, my fighting spirit was there. For me, that was enough to keep my chances of crossing the finish line at least within the cut-off time.

I arrived at the gun-start line, corralled like racehorses with my fellow runners. You can sense a palpable tension in the air. To shake off my nerves, I tried to observe my fellow runners for a while before warming up.

Some intimidated me as they have already achieved a runner’s physique and confidence from years of marathon experience. Others I assumed to be first-timers like me, appearing uneasy and pacing the street back and forth, with their eyes obviously constricted with doubt.

We were different people with different reasons for joining, but there was an unexplainable solidarity amongst everyone, and that truly affected me.

The sound of the gun shattered the eerie stillness of the breaking dawn as I started running. I clenched my fist and swung my elbows, imagining in my head how proper running form looked like. I decided to jog slow, took my time until my limbs were elastic enough to reach my desired pace and breathed deeply to expand and fuel my lungs with oxygen.

I kept reminding myself that I was joining a marathon and not a race, and the only competition that I had was with myself. I stopped at each water refilling station to rehydrate and took every opportunity to pep talk myself to go further.

Every stride was a mixed feeling of strength and pain, of fear and courage. I thought of the days and weeks of preparation just to get here and my reasons for running. While I was progressing with each kilometer, the reasons for joining were one by one processed and answered. So many things crossed my mind, but one thing became clear — running was a cheap form of therapy I never knew I needed.

I discovered that every bead of sweat that I dropped and left on the pavement was a reminder that I was struggling but still existing. My legs were becoming heavier, even my breathing.

I continued even when the trails were becoming difficult, fought my way to make it in every slope, and felt my legs were straining and ran as hard as I could even when my pace did not seem to budge. I checked my watch and 2 hours and 30 minutes had already slipped by. I still had 2 kilometers to go. I did not care for time. All that I was concerned about was crossing the finish line.

Finally, I saw the outline of the arch denoting the finish line. It was almost 7 a.m. and the sun was beginning to spread its warmth. I was just a hundred meters short and soon I crossed the finish line with a time of 2 hours and 57 minutes.

I had to confess, I cried when I saw the word “FINISH.” I was so emotional seeing the sea of runners who also made it, cheerers swarming and hearing the drummers pounding hard on their snare drums, signaling that the race had come to an end.

I felt my insides swelling with gratitude and tried to hold back my tears as I saw my parents coming over. I forced myself to flash my widest smile in front of the camera while holding the finisher banner even when I was experiencing mixed emotions.

To date, I have already joined nine half-marathons and a 32-kilometer run, aka the Afroman distance.

It’s safe to say that running became an addiction, and a potent potion for all the days that my worth is tested.

More than the medals and the bragging rights of finishing long distances, I learned that it was always possible to push yourself to the limits and be victorious especially in the most trying moments in your life.

It humbled me and kept me grounded because of the lessons learned from each and every race that I participated in. Running gave me a second life, and a healthy addiction to the surge of endorphins that produce a runner’s high.

The author works as a staff nurse in the intensive care unit of a government hospital.

MA. KORINA TRIXIA L. MOLINA