I’ve always been fascinated with words: their meanings, origins, and metamorphosis. Words have the power to soothe or incite, encourage or inspire. A simple word like “yes” can change the course of your life while “no” can leave you full of regret or relief.
I’m turning 40 this year. Nothing about this birthday bothers me. Nothing, that is, except that now I will be racing as a masters runner. People who are masters have perfected the art of their craft. They know all there is to know about their subject. Master violinists know every curve of their instrument, how to slide their bow over the strings with such perfection as to transport their audience back to Mozart’s Vienna. Master glass blowers know exactly how to heat and cool simple sand to make extraordinary vases and bowls. Mastery isn’t dictated by age, it’s dictated by experience.
What am I a master of? I didn’t start running until I was 33. I’ve run 38 marathons, 10 relay races, countless half-marathons and 5Ks and a single 10K. Most of my miles are logged during solo runs around my neighborhood. Most of my races are local, but I travel when I can. Does that make me a master of running?
I have mastered the art of drinking while running. I know just how to pinch the cup so water doesn’t go up my nose or down my shirt. This is no small thing and took me many races and Gatorade showers to figure it out. It’s a party trick that impresses all my running friends.
I am a master of the port-o-potty. Like Superman, I can be in and out in the speed of light. My record: 17 seconds. I’d like to shave off some and go sub-15. It’s a lofty goal, but one I’m confident I can achieve if I set my mind to it.
Chafing no longer controls my life. I control it. I know exactly where to apply Body Glide and Band-Aids and which sports bras to avoid. I’ve also learned that with age comes larger thighs, thus I’ve said goodbye to a few running skirts that no longer offer the protection I need.
Does all this make me a master?
No matter how prepared I am, no matter how hard I’ve trained, no matter how fast my current PR, every time I stand at the start line and look around, I feel like an interloper. I’ve yet to master control over my pre-race jitters and self-doubt. That second-place finish last year? Luck. That 2:51 PR? Fluke. That one-year without a single injury? Divine intervention.
As I stood in the lobby of my New York City hotel waiting to catch a cab to take me to the ferry to take me to the bus to take me to the start line of the NYC Marathon, my best running friend looked at me bundled in thrift store sweats, a blanket, two pairs of Target stretchy gloves and my daughter’s pink knit cap two sizes too small and told me bluntly that if she didn’t know me, she’d think I was just another homeless woman. In other words, I didn’t look like a runner, much less a runner with 25 marathons under her belt.
In fact, I don’t act like a runner, either. The St. George Marathon offers a special corral for runners who qualify as elite. Somehow I fooled everyone and made it into this special sanctuary. As other girls braved their shorty shorts, tank tops and serious-looking arm warmers and ran strides, did high knees, and other foreign rituals to warm up, I stood as close to the fire barrels as possible, warming my hands and praying not to get trampled when the gun went off. I was an American in France. An orange among apples. A penguin in Africa. I don’t see this feeling going away after I blow out the candles on my 40th birthday cake.
If getting older has taught me anything, it’s that life is short and I waste far too much time worrying about the “what-ifs” and “coulda beens.” My definition of success has undergone as much transformation as many aging actresses' faces. I still go to battle with the finish line clock, but its power is far weaker than it was years ago. I find more joy in the journey than at the finish.
We often look to masters for advice, guidance, perspective. I can’t offer much in the way of coaching advice or training guidance, but I can offer some perspective. Run while you can. Remember what drew you to the roads or trails in the first place. Soak in those moments when the legs are rubbery and the lungs on fire. Savor that hot shower after a snowy 10-miler. Enjoy the squish of new running shoes and run like a 5-year-old after a trip to the shoe store. Take in a sunrise-streaked sky during those early morning runs.
Not long ago I had one of those memorable runs. It started at 5 a.m. By the time I finished at 7:30 a.m., the fog was so dense I could see five feet in front of me. I was on the path surrounding the lake at Daybreak. Aside from the geese, some solitary lights in surrounding homes and two passing cars, I was completely alone. There was no one else in the world but me. I imagined myself running in space (except the gravity part), drifting my way through the black night sky. The fog muffled even the smallest sound so I could only hear my breathing, my feet and the waves of the lake lapping against the rocks. The sweet smell of cinnamon wafted past from the bakery with the promise of gooey, chewy post-run warmth. The air, while chilly, felt like my grandmother’s afghans, comforting while enveloping me in its mist.
In those foggy, pre-dawn hours I was at peace living a life I’d hoped I would live. I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be, who I was, and where I wanted to go. The rest of my day may fall apart (and to some extent, it did), but I’d created this small victory. I’d created this moment.
And in that moment, I was a master.
Kim Cowart is a wife, mother, 24-Hour Fitness instructor, LUNA Bar sponsored athlete, and marathoner, and looking forward to be a master of something soon, even if in name only.