Essay Contest Winner: Nikkei Meline

We'd like to offer our congratulations, once again, to Nikkei Meline on her winning essay. Well done, Nikkei! Check out NW Runner for the print publication of this essay.

Marathons and Motherhood: The Diathlon

Nikkei Meline


“Half or whole?”

That is the question I asked my first-grade daughter this morning when I made her sandwich for lunch, and it is the question I asked myself when I contemplated registering for the Windermere Marathon. My daughter answered, “Half.” I answered, “Whole!” My daughter is smarter than me. She sets achievable goals. I simultaneously underestimate the requirements of a task and overestimate my capacity to meet them.

The truth is that I run to get away from my kids, literally, and some days 26.2 miles doesn’t seem far enough. When I begin training, it’s impossible to get even two miles away—impossible because after only 1.5 miles, the always-smiling daycare attendant at the Y sidles up to the treadmill and taps me on the elbow to tell me that my baby’s diaper needs to be changed. Because after going to sleep at midnight and waking up to nurse the baby at 2 AM and again at 4, I choose to stay in bed at 6 rather than get up to get my run in. Because 9.999999 times out of 10, I’d rather not run at all than run behind my baby and toddler in the jogger. I love irony, but not so much that I’m amused by pushing two kids ahead of my every footfall when the reason I’m running is to get away, not to chase after them.

Marathons and parenthood are both endurance sports. The need for endurance in each is obvious, though I suspect that the sport is more often at my expense than on my behalf. Those with experience or natural-born talent make it look so easy, so rewarding. The rest of us have to get around the training curve, the curve that never seems to straighten out. Thank goodness for the accumulated wisdom and support in the blogosphere. Thank goodness for the always-smiling daycare attendant at the Y, even as she cheerfully enforces the 10-minute cry rule. At least she provided the motivation for me to get my pace under 10 minutes per mile—I could check the kids in, run to the treadmill, and get at least one mile in before I had to stop because the kids had cried the whole time.

Anyone who paid attention during the elementary school birds and bees presentation knows about the moment when one becomes committed to parenthood. For a marathon, the moment of commitment is the registration. I’m always tempted to wait to register after my training is completed, but if I actually did that, I’d never even start my training. So during the dead of winter, I registered for a May race, the Windermere Marathon. A busy parent learns to streamline errands and strive for efficiency, and I was on a roll: I also registered for the Rock ‘n’ Roll Seattle Marathon in June. I was determined to save time and get two marathons out of one fantastic training season. Except that the training season wasn’t so fantastic.

I had a sixteen-week schedule to do in fifteen weeks, one that I’d used when training for my first marathon, after baby #3, before baby #4. I had registered for that marathon, St. George, in Utah, mostly out of curiosity. I only got to run the race because my name was drawn in their lottery, and perhaps I never would have followed through if I hadn’t won my spot. I knew that there were thousands of runners all over the country who were disappointed that their names weren’t drawn, and that starving-kids-in-Africa-type guilt worked its magic. What kind of ungrateful person would I be if I didn’t have the decency to finish my broccoli and finish St. George?

Guilt worked for me for St. George, but against me for Windermere. I was headed into the first of the high-mileage weeks when I took my kids, all four of them, to visit my mother in Idaho for spring break. The weather was horrible, but I was willing to run in it. After all, I had gotten off of the treadmill and into the streets in Spokane as soon as the ice broke. I was willing to run in the snow, sleet, and wind of southeastern Idaho, but I wasn’t willing to leave my mom with all the kids for at least 2 ½ hours while I did my 16-mile runs. Our vacation lasted over a week, and I missed my first two long runs. I felt demoralized, and I even resented my children for a moment. When I got back home, I decided to switch to the half marathon and focus on improving my time instead.

For me, getting to the starting line is the real battle of a marathon. Training is the hard part; the actual race is the reward. I didn’t run the full marathon, but I set a new personal record in the half. I smiled to myself when I picked up my “Inaugural Competitor” shirt. Competitor? Me? Well, I suppose so. I compete against myself, against my current best time. I compete against icy roads, dark mornings, sore ankles, vacations for the kids, sleep deprivation, pregnancy, breastfeeding, housekeeping, and all the various and sundry needs of my children. Somehow I manage. I run for my mental health; I run for my life. I run to get away, but I always come back—smelling worse but feeling better.

Runner Up: Austin Henderson

Balancing Act
Austin Henderson

While running, I noticed I was strangely isolated, even in a herd of people. The only view of another runner I saw was of their back; not once did I see another face. A marathon runner told me that during the race she had spent over three hours running with a man, but afterwards wouldn’t have been able to identify his face.

Around halfway through the race, I began to wish I had brought a companion. In front of me a pair of friends merrily loped, chatting as they ran. Several miles of this got me a little bit lonely; they looked so very happy and just twenty feet behind them I was languishing as my iPod headphones fizzled out from the sweat pooling inside my ears.

For me, the appeal of running is that it’s a non-competitive sport. There is no direct opponent whose success means my defeat, and the only person who really matters when deciding how I will perform is myself. So just like with almost anything in life, a balancing act emerges between achievement and enjoyment, with myself being the only acrobat on the wire.

Not that there’s much room for balancing acts at my level of ability. Had I brought a friend, my running would have been worse. I’m barely in shape enough to just run the whole course. Talking on top of that would have inevitably led to me dropping off and walking, which to me equals failure. If I had more physical capacity, I might reach a level where I could both run the marathon and enjoy myself. While I was running, it became obvious that I had not reached that level. My shoulders, my feet, my knees, and my gut all ached, and I was lost in motion, dizzy in the sun. All I could do was follow the two friends running in front of me.

They kept perfect pace, always in front and confident in their strides. As long as I kept them right there, I knew I would be okay. I didn’t need direct companionship or support: merely keeping up with a couple of people who looked like real athletes drove me. Just as being in a class with a valedictorian can inspire an underachieving student, I saw my own potential through them. That spurred me to ignore the pain, cease dwelling on my self-pity and loneliness, and just run.

Around mile ten or eleven, the friends split up, one of them cruising off at an absurd pace and the other slowing down a little bit. This was the farthest I had ever run in my life and for some reason I felt great. It felt wrong in a way to pass the slower of the pair, because without her I would’ve been walking a few miles behind, sucking energy gel out of defeated hands. I’m sure she didn’t care at all and didn’t even know me; she had never turned around to see the faces of those following her. Passing her meant the collapse of my symbol – the ideal runner I’d created in front of me was not actually faster or stronger than me. Or maybe, I thought, she was truly better, but decided to slow down and listen to the river.

Runner Up: Todd Rogers

An Old Man and His Son
By Todd Rogers

We will never be the same. The completion of the Windermere Half Marathon was much more than a 13.1 mile run for me and my son Jon. It was more than the achievement of a goal; it was a milestone in the life of two people.

In April of 2008, my 16-year-old son and I were preparing to participate in a Boy Scout high adventure program in Florida. The program required that all participants were 250 pounds or less. This presented a problem – not for me, but for my son. He was over six feet tall but tipped the scales at 258 pounds. He has always been active and agile, yet carried too much weight. The directors of the program waived the requirement since he was able to demonstrate that his weight did not prevent him from performing all of the necessary tasks of the program. But that was it: Jon had had enough. Though he was very popular, well liked, and excelled academically, his self-image was suffering. Jon embarked on a journey of wellness. He modified his diet and started a very strict workout program. It was not long before the results began to show. They were demonstrated not only by the physical changes that were slowly but surely taking place, but by the emotional and psychological changes.

On the other hand, there’s me. I will be 50 this year. Not over the hill, but not a spring chicken either. I have always made an effort to maintain a good level of fitness, whatever that means. I was five feet 11 inches tall and tipped the scales at about 195 pounds. One day last winter, a guy at the gym was handing out flyers for the Windermere Marathon and Half Marathon. After several days of consideration, I approached Jon with a proposition. I suggested that he and I run the half marathon together. He embraced the challenge, and our fitness journeys merged.

Through the rest of the winter, which as you know was longer than usual, we prepared on our own. Jon continued with his careful eating and regular trips to the gym. I continued to go the gym, but was not so careful with the eating. When the spring weather finally allowed us to run outside, we did our weekly long runs together. Jon struggled in the beginning when we hit the seven- and eight-mile marks. When we ran over ten miles, I would have to encourage him for the last few. We put in our time and made the necessary preparations. We felt ready.

As the day of the run approached, we were a little nervous but quietly confident that we would manage. Jon had grown some; now he was over 6 feet 3 inches tall, and weighed just under 190 pounds – yes, 190. He had lost 70 pounds and grown an inch. The only thing that stayed the same was his size 15 shoe. I’m not chopped liver – I lost five pounds. (I didn’t grow any, though).

The day of the run, we arrived with a group of six of our friends, ranging in age from mid-twenties to one old man of 49 (me). Jon and I started well back in the pack. We were farther back than all of our friends. The mass of people moved very slowly and we watched as the people we knew stretched out farther and farther ahead of us. The temperature was perfect, nice and cool, with clear skies. Jon and I kept what felt like a good pace. I joked with him that anyone could run 13.1 miles in a size 9 shoe, but doing it with a size 15 shoe would be a real FEET. The fourth, seventh, tenth, and eleventh miles were important, because those were the miles where we passed the other members of our group of six.

After mile nine I was exhausted, but Jon seemed to have no limit of reserve energy. I encouraged him to leave me in the fetal position along the way, but he would not do it. He reminded me that we had started this journey together and we would finish it together. That is exactly what we did. We finished in 1 hour, 52 minutes. I believe that Jon was the youngest male and possibly the youngest person to run the half marathon.

I cannot begin to express how it makes a father feel to be so close to a transformation in one of his children. I love this boy, and I always have, and always will for that matter. The experience of seeing him blossom and watching his self-image change for the better is one of the most rewarding I have ever had. In the race photos, if you look for bib #2499, you’ll see an old man – and that good-looking young man with him is his son.

Runner Up: Jill Josquin

Fat, Fortyish, and Fabulous
By Jill Josquin

If you looked at me, you wouldn’t think I was a runner. You might not even think I’m in very good shape – but I can run a mean ten- to eleven-minute mile. Yes, that’s right—a ten- to eleven-minute mile. My twelve-year-old son informed me that was rather slow, but I was not discouraged because I can run that ten- to eleven-minute mile for just one mile or for 13.1 miles, as I did on May 16th at the inaugural Windermere Marathon and Half Marathon in Spokane.

My journey to run a half marathon began in December 2008. As I was waiting to check in at the Spokane Valley YMCA, I noticed the Windermere Marathon brochure and saw that the YMCA was offering training. Well, thirty years and thirty pounds ago, I was a competitive high school distance runner. I still love running, yet my body can no longer take the pounding of a daily training regimen. I decided I should do this training because I hadn’t had a coach since high school and each year I talk about getting in shape to run a half marathon. I signed up! Keats McGonigal of the YMCA organized our training schedules and training groups. We met each Saturday morning and did the other training on our own. The training with others of similar ability inspired me to work hard toward my goal of “running” the entire distance of 13.1 miles.

The week of the race, I came down with a cold, so I only went for two runs. On race day, I was slightly congested, but hey, I had the right shoes, the right gear, and most importantly the right attitude. I was determined that I would move my feet forward in a jogging motion for the entire 13.1 miles. I refused to wear a watch because I know how to pace and I didn’t want the obsessive-compulsive runner I am to take over my race.

The gun went off, and off we went, mile one, mile two. What? Mile marker two again? There was a slight error in the mile markers; mile two was posted both at mile two and at mile three. Yes, that’s right, but I can add and run too. The rest of the race I knew that when I saw a mile marker, I needed to add one. At the second mile two marker, my training partner said, “We went out too fast!” She wore her watch. I told her not to worry, that to be a minute faster per mile on race day for a distance event isn’t a big deal. I hoped I was right. It was a gorgeous day and a beautiful course. While running mile after mile, I took in the sights: blooming trees, wild flowers, the sound of the river rushing by, and geese tending to their newly hatched goslings.

I finished the race in Spokane’s Riverfront Park after running continually for two hours and nineteen minutes—a mean ten- to eleven-minute mile pace. I was thrilled! My twelve-year-old son and my husband met me at the finish line. Even my son was impressed by my speed. While he could surely beat me at one mile, he couldn’t beat me at 13.1. Yes, I am proud of myself; I am fat, fortyish, and fabulous.

Summer reading is on the way

We are very excited to announce that Nikkei Meline's winning essay will be published in the next issue of Northwest Runner. Pick up a copy on July 15th.

Nikkei's essay, along with the essays written by the runners up, will be published to the blog the week of July 22.