That time I tried to run a 10k

I found out about Madrid Corre por Madrid in June. I was just getting back into running--if that's what you would call my 10min/mile zombie shuffle. The event description drew me in. Run through all the main sights of Madrid? Commemorative T-Shirt? Yes, please.

T-shirt

There was just one problem:

It was a 10k race.

To a seasoned runner, or perhaps anyone who isn't a couch potato like myself, a 10k is a doable distance. I had never run beyond 3 miles, and the idea of not only reaching but doubling that distance by September seemed an impossible feat. Plus, where would I find time among working at camp, going to Germany, and going home?

But I signed up anyway, and the goal of completing a 6-mile race kept me fairly motivated through a non-stop summer. Exhaustion, changing schedules, and persistent ankle pain didn't stop me. Well, the ankle pain kind of did.

Race day came, and I wasn't prepared. I had cut my training short four weeks before the race, due to that nagging left ankle. And then everything went wrong.

I slept maybe 4 hours, thanks to jet-lag and pre-race jitters. I woke up feeling awful and nauseated. Then, right as we were about to leave the house I realized that Álvaro had forgotten my motorcycle helmet back at his parent's house. He had promised to drive me to the race that morning. So, I ran to the metro. Álvaro didn't follow suit and suddenly I was running late, left by myself with no one to hold my stuff during the race.


I managed to miss both trains, adding an extra 13 minutes to my travel time. Once off the metro, I rushed to the bag check to drop off my stuff and headed to the starting gate. By this time the stress had intensified my nausea. I found my place at the back at the pack just as the crowd surged forward and the race began.

The nausea didn't go away. I spent the whole race gasping for breath and with my stomach in knots. I'd had easy run days where I could go for an hour without problems. This was not one of those days. I had to fight the urge to walk. The last kilometer was uphill and eventually I gave in and had to alternate between walking and running. 

Due to being so slow, I was out there for over an hour. That's a long time to fight with oneself. Despite this, the adrenaline of having finished kicked in and I somehow forgot every bad moment I had endured. It wasn't a great race but I had pushed myself farther than I had ever gone, despite less-than-ideal circumstances. I'm sure there's a life lesson in there somewhere.

And that ankle pain? STRESS FRACTURE AWW YEAH.

Home Again

Almost one year after I said goodbye to the United States, I boarded a 13 hour plane bound for the Los Angeles International Airport. On tiny screens in the middle of the aisles, the Iberia flight showed The Great Gatsby. While I like the book, I'm not a particular fan of the movie—too much flash and not enough substance—but nevertheless the film's final words (taken verbatim from the novel) echoed in my head.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.... And one fine morning —
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

It's one of my favorite concluding paragraphs in literature, one that particularly resonates with me. I am unfortunately a nostalgic person. I have the tendency to reminisce and to miss bygone years, while letting my present pass me by. I've spent the past year in Spain, working at a decent job, involved in a good relationship, and occasionally traveling. Yet, I can't resist comparing to my final years of college, where I still lived close to my friends and we saw each other every weekend.

Moving on is part of adulthood. People change cities, get married, have kids (or don't). Some get great jobs and some still live with their parents. Before graduation, we had our lives more or less laid out in similar trajectories, taking classes and studying for exams. After graduation, some people (myself included) moved back home. Some started working. Some continued to grad school. Some changed states. I changed countries. It's normal. It's what happens. But I have still had trouble accepting that it's time for a new phase.

Anyway, I've spent several paragraphs waxing philosophical about The Great Gatsby while failing to address the whole point of this post: my trip home. For the first two weeks of September, I flew back to the good ol' US of A. My first year in Spain was admittedly a bit lonely. I spent many weekends sitting in my apartment, playing the Sims or refreshing Facebook for the 1,000^th time. I missed living down the street from my friends, where every weekend we would hang out together and play video games. I had been away from California for a year, and I was looking forward to reconnecting with everyone.

I came home expecting to be embraced by the familiarity of my home country, and I was surprised to experience reverse culture shock. Flying into Los Angeles, I was overwhelmed by the immense concrete sprawl. I wandered through my grocery store and marveled at the jumbo tub of nacho cheese. Was everything always this big?

I also had to face the more sobering reality that my friends were no longer available to hang out, either due to distance, responsibilities, lack of interest, or some combination. I suppose I had anticipated that people would be more eager to see me stateside. Instead, my phone remained silent for my duration home (unless you count the “wrong number” who told me they loved me. Thanks, dude).

That isn't to say that I had a bad time. At the very least I was able to spend lots of time with my family during those two weeks. With my dad, I went on a 7-mile hike and a few 19-mile bike rides. With my mom, I went shopping (I really missed Target of all places). We went to the beach and out to dinner. I spent my afternoons relaxing on the couch or playing with my cats.

In many ways, the trip home served as a reminder that my life is forming here in Spain now. I didn't realize that until I went home and felt foreign. I will always miss the states. My family is there, and there are customs I'm not willing to let go of (holidays, food, etc). But now it's time to let go of the past and focus on my life here.