On worn out shoes, running, and turning 30...

By Lisa A. Eramo

It was 1999. I was determined to run the longest race of my life: 9.3 miles of asphalt road, my pumping heart a compass to guide me. The Boilermaker (a fitting name considering its duration) was held in the sultry summer heat on July 11--one of the sunniest and warmest days of the year in upstate New York. There were throngs of observers to cheer us on, hand us cups of chilled water, and serve up oranges to hydrate our thirsty bodies. Race veterans would say that if you could get to the six mile mark, the crowd would carry you through the rest. They were right.

Upon the race's culmination, I was the 6,997th person to cross the finish line, a computer chip in my shoe lace marking the exact moment. I was 20 years old, my body still new and young, taking the road less traveled.

There were 7,359 runners that year. We each trained, toiled, toned, and taught ourselves to find a pace. Though I'd never been an athlete growing up, I was set on finishing the race. I practiced for months on winding country roads, a backdrop of farmland surrounding me. I ran along the Erie, watching suns rise and fall, the smell of freshly cut grass seeping into my skin.

I ran the race in honor of my Calculus teacher who'd passed away the year before from a brain tumor. He was most definitely one of the most brilliant persons I'd ever met.

Although I don't run anymore, I still feel that pang of freedom when I see someone else doing it. I become distracted by their muscles contracting and moving like pistons in a machine. I see their sweat leaving a stain on sun-ripened shirts. I see the look on their faces that says 'I am running away from fear--stand aside or join me.'

I thought about running the other day when I came across the pair of sneakers I'd worn the day of the race nearly ten years ago. I took them out of the closet and tugged at the laces still folded neatly in a bow. For the most part, the shoes still looked brand new--I'm not sure how. Only the bottoms showed their age, soles that were weathered and cracked from use. These shoes had carried and cushioned me, supported my flat feet and helped to soften the blow on my weakened knees. I felt a sort of love for them--for the care they'd showed me during that time.

This July, I will turn 30 years old. I will enter a new decade of my life. I haven't really put those shoes on at all since the race. They've remained in the darkness of my closet among other forgotten belongings. Yet their importance still speaks to me when I take the time to listen: You can do it, Lisa. You can do it.

Perhaps I will don them when the clock strikes midnight on my birthday. Perhaps I will lace them up and parade around the room or go for moonlight stroll. Perhaps I will start walking and never stop. Perhaps I will take a step for every year I've lived and one for every dream I still have. I will make this phase even better than the last and let my shoes propel me forward to the next leg of the race.