84:01

About 3 years ago, I made a determination to myself that I would do something that physically and mentally challenged me.

Well, apart from getting up on time each and every day.

This determination was made when I first got diagnosed with that little niggly health issue which has kept me a constant companion for these long years, has made me friends with doctors and nurses in the UK and back here in Vancouver and has, at times, made me ashamed and angry, frightened and frustrated. Last July, I seemed to be winning that battle, and then suddenly over the last few months I'm faced with a stronger foe. This time however, I know in my heart that I am going to be just fine, that despite all the uncertainty at the moment waiting on results and undergoing 'just one more test' again, I know that it will be okay. Whatever happens, I can deal with it.

And so I wanted to do something that would push me, physically and mentally. I have never been an athlete, have never really taken much joy in physical exertion. I've joined gyms and rarely gone, or started fitness programs and never seen them through to the end. Indifference or laziness, or a combination of the two, I've never been sure.
So what better solution to my determination than to attempt to run? And how about that 10K? And I tried, a little. Back when I was living in the Wonky Cottage in Bromley, November rains and dark, wet pavements provided a training ground. But then December came with its promises of parties and Saturday morning runs became Saturday morning lay ins to sleep off vodka induced fugs. There was always something, after all. And so it fell by the wayside. And I tried again, with The Swiss attempting to drag my protesting form out of warm Sunday morning beds and get my feet flying along Hampstead Heath. I tried, halfheartedly. In my heart I wanted to, it was my mind and my feet and my sprained ankle and my hangover and my laziness that pushed that determination to the wayside again.

And then January 2007. Why not? This year? And so I ran. Looked at training schedules and plugged my ipod in. Ran along the seawall, at night, in pouring rain and hail.
And then I fell, losing my edge snowboarding and bruising my tailbone on an icy slope and somehow I couldn't seem to get myself back out there. I lost focus, again.
Yet this time something had happened, had shifted. The day I hear that what may be the cause is a tumour, I walk home slowly, without thought. Sit down and for the first time in a number of week pull on my running shoes and run. I run as long as I can, breathing slowly. Nobody lets me give up on myself this time, despite my grumbles and complaints. Friends come and run beside me, at my pace. Amelia takes me to the Endowment Lands and keeps me on track. I, on the other hand, carry on with my hangovers. A date with the Rockstar, or Tall Dave or a night out with friends give me an excuse, prove my undoing. No one gives up on me, no matter how hard I try, lending support and encouragement and still we run, through forests and trails, past other runners, in cold and rain and sunsets and somehow I get a small sense of what peace may feel like.

I quit my job, start a new one and the second week in I am ill with a cold, struggling to get through each day. For the first time in years, I am in bed early, exhausted mentally and physically. There is a week to go until the big run, and I am ready to give up. Yet I feel like I have let myself down. Again. And this time I actually feel ashamed, that I had the opportunity to do it and lost focus. That for the last 2 weeks I had been looking for any excuse to get out of this.

And then suddenly, it is Sunday morning and we are stood in a crowd of people. Shuffling slowly, some of us eager to get to that Start line. Me, perhaps not so eager.

The first mile goes by quickly, turning the corner towards Lost Lagoon the air smells of fresh blossoms. And so we run, slowly. Cheering every km passed, setting little goals, running a full km and then a short walk. Over the Burrard Street Bridge and past Granville Island. Halfway there, and passing 7k, 8k, the 9k mark at the top of the Cambie Street bridge, I can't yet see the Finish Line but Amelia is beside me telling me we're almost there.
The last k hurts, I feel a blister on my left foot, my ankle throbs and lungs burn.

We cross the line, together, and I almost weep. I am elated and relieved, proud, sore, hot and sweaty.

It may not be the fastest time, or the most graceful of runs. But it's mine. It took 3 years, 84 minutes and 1 second to get me over that line, kicking and screaming against myself. But I did it.

There are going to be a few more challenges over the next few months, that I know. That is life. But I learned some valuable lessons yesterday, cleared my mind and realised that I am my own worst enemy. But that I can be stronger than that, if I want.

And that every determination, however small it seems, can be so much more than what it appears.