The First Mile Is a Liar
What I’m learning about starting over…again.
Every year around this time I think, “Maybe I’ll take up running again.” Actually, saying running is a bit of a stretch. More like “maybe I’ll take up jogging” again.
When you spend most of your life living halfway between Nike’s World Headquarters and Adidas’ North American Headquarters, you can’t not think this. Everyone around here is always out running. Little packs of people in colorful running shoes and technical athletic gear are everywhere in all kinds of weather. Running down city streets, along forested trails, out on the beach, and up in the mountains.
Right now, people are locking in their summer runs: marathons, half-marathons, 5Ks, and the holy grail of Oregon running…Hood to Coast. If you aren’t familiar with this, it’s a 196-mile relay race with teams of twelve. You start on Mt. Hood, run down to Portland, through the coastal range, and finish at the Pacific Ocean. Each person runs three legs of 4-8 miles over the course of 24 hours. It’s a bucket list item around here. Some people do it every year.
When I first met my hubby I was barely a jogger. I had done track and field in middle and high school, but let me be clear, I was just there for the social angle. (Hello!) The hubs, in contrast, was an actual runner. Part of the running group at his work. Official races with official stats. All of that.
About four years into our marriage, I agreed to be on a Hood to Coast team with him. He had already done it before, but I thought it would be fun to do it once together.
Even though I was just a jogger, I had enough foresight to know that I’d need to train for this event.
At the time, we lived in a little neighborhood in Seattle called Green Lake, where a trail circles the lake with the mileage clearly marked.
I usually headed down to the lake after a full day’s work. I’d start with some stretching. I’d jog in place a bit. I’d take some deep breaths, set my Casio watch to start tracking, and then I’d trudge out onto the paved path and start jogging.
For me, the first mile was always the hardest. My lungs would sting, I’d get a cramp in my side, my legs would feel heavy. I dreaded the tedium that I knew stretched in front of me. Everything about it felt awkward and required so much effort. My brain would call out to just stop the nonsense.
But I could see the boathouse in the distance and I knew that just past it was my first mile marker. And after that, near the playhouse, was mile two.
Eventually I would settle into a jogging rhythm where I’d start to think less about the discomfort and more about the people I was passing, the ducks out swimming, and whatever had happened that day at work.
By the time I looped back to where I started, I was at mile three. Another lap around and I’d finished six miles without thinking too much about it after that first mile.
I could bear the discomfort because the miles were clearly marked. I knew how far I’d gone and how far I had left. I could actually see it, so mentally, it was tolerable.
I managed to keep up with my training and was duly prepared for when Hood to Coast rolled around in August. I did end up earning the award for “Slowest Paced Mile” on the team but, like I said, I’m a jogger and while I may not have been fast, I did finish. Bucket list item checked.
One of the books currently on my nightstand is Do Hard Things by Steve Magness. (Along with Marie Antoinette by Antonia Fraser and Delights & Prejudices by James Beard, because I like bedtime reading options.)
He works mostly with elite runners but what I’m taking from the book has less to do with running and more to do with why it’s so hard to simply get started.
One of the ideas he emphasizes is that our brains are less cheerleader and more cautious gatekeeper. How it sends up early warning signs of discomfort not because we’re actually at our limit, but because it isn’t yet convinced we’ll be okay.
Which honestly feels like exactly what’s happening in that first mile. My brain fills in the blanks the only way it knows how by urging me to quit. Before my body has found its rhythm. Before my brain has gathered enough evidence to relax.
That wiring made sense once. When staying close to what was familiar meant survival. Now it feels a little overprotective.
Because it shows up when I’m just trying to get outside for a walk, or break out of a cooking rut with a new recipe, or even wash my hair. (Anyone else?) It shows up when I’m simply trying to begin again with something familiar.
We had to make an unexpected move recently. Well, I should say the move wasn’t unexpected, but the timing was.
And everything about moving, especially in the beginning, is disorienting and exhausting. The packing. The unpacking. What stays? What goes?
Where should we hang the yellow dog painting you love?
What about the Paris map that you love?
Why do we have 17 rolls of Scotch tape and 4 staplers?
Why isn’t our mail being delivered?
Why don’t these sinks drain?
More than that, the move knocked me out of all my carefully crafted routines and in particular, my routine of going to the gym and working toward my push-up goal. I haven’t been in two months. I know I’ve slipped backwards. I know I’ll have to do the “first mile” again. And honestly, I don’t want to.
I’d rather just drink coffee in my jammies, watch the birds in the trees, and read a book. Because that is comfortable and cozy. And known.
And this, right here, is always the hardest part. Knowing I have to start again at the “first mile.” Knowing the effort involved in beginning again and not wanting to leave the comfortable and cozy.
Then I start to question: Will I get through it? Will I reach my goal? Or will I get knocked off course again? I don’t know. No one knows. The future doesn’t give us any answers in the present.
And maybe this is what I need to remember as I try to get my routine going again.
That the resistance I feel isn’t a sign that I can’t do it. It’s just the first mile.
It’s my brain doing what it’s always done. Trying to keep me safe. Keeping me where things are easy and familiar.
But I’ve been here before. At the lake. Looking toward the boathouse. Trudging along the trail with stinging lungs and heavy legs. Uncertain if I could make it around.
And I did.
Not because it was easy, but because I stayed with it long enough for the noise to settle. Long enough for other, less dire thoughts to take over.
Maybe I need to stop thinking about the effort involved in getting to the gym and just start.
And anyways, I’m starting to believe what they say in running circles around here: the first mile is a liar.
Cheers,
Carrie