My mom used to warn me about getting in with the wrong crowd, the "fast crowd," she called it. When I went to high school in Atlanta for a couple years, the fast crowd was at autobahn speed. I never could quite figure out how to merge. Then we moved to Minneapolis my junior year and the speed suited me much better.
I hadn't thought about the wrong crowd, or the fast crowd, in years.
That was until yesterday morning at the workout. I am used to waking up at the crack to meet my friends for a run, or even hauling myself out of bed to log some solo miles, but I am not yet used to stumbling into a crowd of strangers at 5:30 in the morning. Paige, Katie, and Amy were with me, so I was not without familiar faces, but it's odd to wake up in a large group of runners, gathered under harsh fluorescent lighting in a training room in the parking lot of Run Tex. We waited, with sticky-up morning hair and beeping Garmins, while Gilbert explained the workout du jour. Then we took off in a giant pack for our warmup. It was here that I began to shake off my sleep, with the movement of the mass and the sound of footfalls surrounding me.
We split up into groups for the meat of the workout. Paige is a faster runner than I am so by virtue of our friendship and my newbie status in the group, assumptions were made and my lot was cast into a group that gave me pause. I never run with shirtless, skinny, fast-looking men. My regular sweat sisters probably look equally imposing, but since I know them, they are friendly territory. The women in this group looked fast and serious. Except for Paige, who looks fast and fun (maybe because I know her?) It hit me there, the thought that I was getting in with the wrong crowd, the fast crowd.
I think the look of doubt and fear must have passed over my face like a shadow. Paige was probably concerned that I was going to bolt, towards my car. She hissed at me, "You belong here, now run." And I didn't have a second to think about it because we were off before I could start my watch. There was no talking, only breathing. We did a long, fast loop around Zilker Park first, maybe a mile, to give Gilbert an idea of our pace. Then we started the workout: 5 by 1,000 meters. Our rest was the jog across the grassy field to return to our start line. The darkness started to lift, so each loop looked different with the light. Loop three was the hardest, as always, without the freshness of the start or the barn sour of the finish. Number four is okay, because you can tell yourself, "Just one more, honey." I chugged a cup of Gatorade before the final 1,000m, hit my watch, and we took off. I was so happy to still be hanging in there that I pushed it towards the finish, Paige and I silently churning side by side, picking up speed. We trimmed over 20 seconds! You know it's humid when you high-five your friend and sweat sprays.
I jogged to my car as my cool-down, not wanting to make my brother Jon late for work. I wrapped my soggy body in a towel before entering my car and drove home, windows open, music on, smiling. Paige was right. I have worked hard this summer, I do belong with the people who intimidate me. She is also right when she reminds me that it's always better to be struggling at the end of a faster pack than leading a slower pack. If we want to get better, we have to deal with being uncomfortable.
Maybe we make too many assumptions about ourselves, our limits, and where we think we belong.
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