Guest Post: Finish Strong

In this guest post, our friend Erin writes about her time in Congo coming to a close. Runner or not, we think everyone can appreciate the sentiment to "finish strong."

By 10am on a Saturday morning in Kinshasa the sun has laid its claim to the sky, shoving the cooler morning air to make way for its scorching heat. Even the shade is forbidden from carrying the memory of cooler temperatures. It is during this time, when the humidity clings to you like a spider web and causes your sunscreen and bug spray to run down your face like some cruel twist of a snowball that I am running.

As I run my body is awakened with an awareness of itself that is measured in aches and pains. As I begin the tightness in my thighs from yesterday’s Jillian workout pulls against my momentum. My first stretch of running highlights the frailty of my ankles and I know by the end I will have reawakened the new hot-spots on the inner arches of on my feet. My lungs push against my chest, desperate in their search for relief. With three minutes left of my last run I abandon my usual workout mantra of “skinny jeans; tank tops; summer dresses,”- a chant that has pulled me through the workouts my friends and I force upon one another in our classrooms after school. Instead I draw from my mental well the simple phrase “Finish strong.” I imagine pouring it over myself like a bucket of cool water.

By my senior year of college I knew I wanted to teach. My problem though was florescent lighting. Florescent lighting and corduroy jumpers represented a conventionality, a monotonous rhythm that my newly minted 21 year old self just couldn’t handle. In my effort to teach without conventions, intrigued by the idea of experiential education, I signed myself up for a semester with the National Outdoor Leadership School, NOLS, learning how to be an outdoor educator. 

Image from here.

Several months later I found myself strapped to a pack half my weight, trudging through the canyons of Utah and wondering, “What in the eff –star-star-star did I get myself into this time?!” I had never been on a backpacking trip before. My prior experience with the “wilderness” included day hikes up paved hills and working at a summer camp. While everyone else in my group had been practicing these skills their entire life, I was stuck relying on a positive attitude and little else. And let me tell you, after a burned breakfast, packing and repacking your bag several times to get it right, and then hiking eight hours in the blaring sun, that positive attitude was growing smaller with each step. 

On our first day in the canyons everyone struggled. Our bags were heavier than normal from carrying extra gear and our bodies strained against the dry heat pounding upon the sometimes rocky sometimes sandy terrain. About a mile out from our intended campground our bodies summoned up the last of our reserves and we began to double-time it. It didn’t matter that we were panting and swaying heavily from our packs and pains in our legs, the end was in sight. It was at this very moment of momentum that our instructor ordered us to stop and take off our packs.

“Why are you running?” she said. The group responded with frustrated variations of “We’re almost there!”

“You need to remember that hiking isn’t about the finish, it’s about the journey. When you race to the end in a frazzled and jumbled state- packs swaying, breath heaving in and out of your bodies, mind only focused at the end point- you disrespect the journey. You need to take a second and remember why you are here. You need to collect yourself so can walk into camp with pride and dignity, so you can finish strong.”

This past October I hit one of those bumps that life likes to throw your way. Sick, broken-hearted, and professionally exhausted, I wished for a time when I was not in Congo. I had abandoned my journey for the promise of a finish and in doing so I had abandoned myself. Who was this woman who sat pole-axed by life, staring out into palm fronds and wishing someone else would make things better? This was not me.

 
So instead of turning away from my pain I sat with it in the quiet, examined it, and found it to be fleeting. What has endured is the community I have found in this strange new world. I have met people who supported me as I shared my goals and dreams, who laugh with me, cry with me, are honest with me, and in the case of my workout-buddies, sweat with me. In my community a brunch is planned by simply walking over to a neighbor’s house with a bottle of champagne. A simple text-message about the pool turns into an opportunity for a water-front picnic where some people bring food, some drinks, some babies, some a combination of all, and everyone has a good time. I will probably never live in another place where those I love are only a few steps away from me.

In the next few weeks I plan to cross several finish lines- graduate school finals, the Kima Mbangu, and the end of the school year and my time here in Congo. I’m down to the last three minutes of my run. I know that I will experience a desire to plow through the last few months just like I wanted to run the last of my hike many years ago. But I refuse to let my time here be more than scenery. I am thankful for the opportunity to regain who I was and grow into something better because of the good people around me. It is because of this place that I know when I do cross that finish line it will be with dignity and my head held high. I will finish strong. 

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Running the Wall

All summer, I read about running.

It started with a New Yorker article about Sammy Wanjiru, the troubled-yet-brilliant Kenyan distance runner.  I had a huge stack of back issues to catch up on but May 21, 2012 edition was my favorite. The descriptions of slow twitch muscles, VO2max, and lactate thresholds were strangely fascinating.  Almost as riveting as the human story that was Wanjiru's.

Sammy Wanjiru.  Image from WikiCommons. FaceMePLS from The Hague, The Netherlands

In Virginia, I mentioned this new literary obsession to Mama Congo Guest Blogger and everyone's favorite ultramarathoner, Andrew Jenner.  He said, "Here, read this" and handed me the thick 116th Boston Marathon program.  He promised me hours of fun.  It was.

Then, I came back to Kinshasa.  I told another teacher (particularly adept at book suggestions as well as a runner) that I wanted to read about running.  She threw this at me, saying, "The hipsters really like it, but he lost me at the point where he professed his love for the Walkman."

Before this book, I purposefully repeated the mantra that I was not a runner, I just liked reading about running.  However, my hipster tendencies took over and somewhere between passages like:

When I'm running I don't have to talk to anybody and don't have to listen to anybody. This is a part of my day I can't do without.

and

You end up exhausted and spent, but later, in retrospect, you realize what it all was for. The parts fall into place, and you can see the whole picture and finally understand the role each individual part plays. The dawn comes, the sky grows light, and the colors and shapes of the roofs of houses, which you could only glimpse vaguely before, come into focus.

I started to get curious about what it would be like to run.

I have run before, but not really.  I've always been that person who says, "Well, I hate running," just like my middle schoolers on run-the-mile day.  Plus, it felt hard to run with two little ones at home.  There was a brief time where I would cheat-run by making Elias go with me.  It usually started off strong and ended with me dragging and/or carrying him most of the way.  Who goes running with a 5 year old?

So, I decided the NHS should get involved.  And I downloaded a free podcast where an extraordinarily pleasant British woman tells me I am doing-a-good-job-and-now-it's-time-for-your-90-second-recovery-walk. Inspirational British pop fills in the spaces.

So, now I am running the wall three mornings a week thanks to Haruki Murakami and the NHS.

The wall?

This is the wall:

This concrete-barbed-wire-leafy-forest-path forms the periphery of our compound.  Once around is a little over 1 mile.  It's pretty great.  I ignore Johan when he tells me how fast he ran around four times.  And if I see Sarah also running the wall, I go the other direction, knowing we would both hate to have a running partner.

The wall at 5:45am is loud.  People are up and shouting for transport, children are crying, and sometimes I hear a rooster.  I can't see any of these things beyond the wall, but I hear them -even through my earbuds - and they remind me that I am thankfully not at a gym.

And it's true what Murakami says.  I don't have to talk or listen to anyone.  Except that awkward, breathless, "Bonjour!" - twice - as I run past the guard house. 

I'm not yet brave enough to be a runner runner.  But for those of you who are: Kinshasa actually has a lot of options.  There are these crazy people - many of whom I know and love.  And this club.  And then, there's the many folks who go out every Sunday for an energetic, national-fitness kind of communal run:

When we had our Kima Mbangu (Run Fast) 5K last year (which I, randomly, organized), Mamas Vida, NouNou, and YouYou ALL came to run.  And they actually ran it.  It was seriously impressive. 

Maybe this year, I'll be running with them.

**More running in Congo here.

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