The Truth Behind Jeff Galloway
Don’t let the title be misleading—I have full confidence in runner-extraordinaire Jeff Galloway.
However, there comes a time in a naïve-runner’s life when the
only possible way to keep running is to put one foot in front of the
other.
When I originally glanced at Galloway’s book on training for half marathons entitled,
You Can Do It, I scoffed at the book cover.
The runners looked so happy. Why would anyone look so happy in that environment?
I’m fully convinced now that the smiles on their shining faces were more than just plain enjoyment.
It was all in the act. When do we as
humans, who have been given bodies fully capable for things like
running, begin to find pleasure in that kind of physical pain?
This question and more seemed to pervade my thoughts as I watched
the Olympics or saw a young mother, with at least five kids, running
along the sidewalk with the family dog.
There was more to the huff and puff up the abnormally large hill.
Thus began the journey into my fascination with training for half marathons and the runners who ran them.
For those who decide to train for a half-marathon one must train and train well, but also acquire a form of heavenly joy.
For a college student who still had trouble remembering her
social security number, and who was still half in love with her high
school sweetheart, the time had come to push past prior misgivings of
the running world.
Are runners crazy? Of course.
Does one instantly realize the pain that arises from training for a half marathon?
Of course. In the following weeks I immersed myself into the Jeff Galloway fan club.
The ladies I ran with in the mornings jabbered on about his wisdom until I decided it would be worthwhile, not only for
my ears but for my pain level, to invest in a pair of headphones to go along with my prized Apple device.
For goodness sake the training was going to be hard enough.
One of the more interesting parts of the running world is the mom category of runners.
They range in age, and have various amounts of children.
Their favorite past time is Weight Watchers, and conversing about the different body parts that have improved in appearance.
My training group was composed of two mom’s who loved their
husbands, and getting up as soon as the clock revealed that it was
five-thirty.
Their running world was always a little more pleasant than mine.
The world of an unskilled half marathon trainee isn’t a bed of roses.
It’s more like a slap in the face by one’s arch-nemesis.
By the first morning, the lungs alert you to the impending hardships that await.
The Super-Man Runners have this incredible ability to not pay attention to their lungs, however.
As they rise each morning for their run, the last thing on their mind is their lungs.
This reality is hard to come by. The
lungs, legs, arms, stomach, even head go through various levels of pain
as the weeks truck on which placed me in a complete rational state.
Thank God for the body’s ability to improve. I
couldn’t help but feel a rise of emotions when I completed the run up
the hill without falling over, or the sprint to the end of my first
three miles with my mom runners.
Gradually I felt closer to the runners on Galloway’s book as I my understanding grew and grew.
The sweat dripping of my temples felt more like tiny gold medals, and the discomfort the next morning was more like a dull pain.
Thank God for Advil. Advil is surely a naïve runner’s best friend.
One of the more enjoyable aspects of training is the “accountability partners” who latch on till the end.
Mine was a small Cuban woman who had always loved me like a daughter.
She was one of the two mom’s. People like my Cuban running mother are imperative for success.
Among other things, they make sure you’re up in time for a forty-five minutes run, they create the most
detailed schedules, and don’t flatter where flattery is certainly not needed.
They know pride is the downfall of a trainee. So
in order to deflect pride, I felt an urgency to keep going for I knew
that to stop would bring regrets that would take me farther away from my
Galloway running pleasure that was
close on the horizon.
Sadly, those perfect times of pleasure amidst pain don’t always last, but they promise to return.
In moments of intense weakness, a naïve runner experiences a myriad of emotions.
“Why do you like to run,” I asked my Cuban running mother one day after a torturous run through town.
She commented on how Jeff Galloway changed her life along with
remarks on her weight gain, but followed that with an expression of love
for this physical activity.
There it was again. The pain I felt was pleasure for her.
She trained for half marathons for the challenge, but most importantly for the accomplishment.
Pain was only an after-thought to her.
For centuries the human race has found enjoyment in sweating, competition, and of course the motion of running.
Half-marathons, marathons, iron-mans—they all measure the amount of accomplishments the human body can endure with pleasure.
I remember finding the girls who blasted past me during our time of sprints in basketball practice quite annoying.
My legs seemed to fight against the urge to run as if to say, “Watch out, this may hurt.”
I never had a strong enough voice to tell them to keep quiet.
My Cuban mom had attained a strong voice against the flesh and yelled at me to stay focused more than I desired.
Her short tan legs seemed to move at the same pace as me yet she
always kept a few feet ahead as if to say, “I still run this joint.”
The endurance of other is sure to light a fire under one’s newly purchased running
shoes.
Understanding the pain is only a fraction of being a successful runner.
One must
keep going amidst the throbbing or fail.
To keep going means a naïve runner like myself had to keep the
mind out of it, and accept each step with an assurance that the next
million would come.
Running alongside the mothers lit a forest fire under my slow feet thankfully.
I was getting closer to finding pleasure. It was only a few miles away.
The week of the half marathon is appropriately intense.
Running mothers try to downplay their apprehension by planning the trip to the race.
The naïve runners keep running to the end because they know one must actually run twelve miles before going.
I must have backed out ten times in my head. I learned that fear is a prime threat against success.
The mother’s assured me of Galloway’s knowledge more than once,
but I knew that when the gun shot went off at the race it would only be
me, myself, and I.
There’s a weird moment in a runner’s life where one does have to question why they take pleasure in this?
Why is there joy amidst this pain that only worsens with longer runs?
Is it the accomplishment or the actual act of running that makes a runner’s heart glad?
I’m still asking myself these questions today. Whether
training for a half marathon, or just plain running the moment arrives
when runners like Jeff Galloway fold into the distances, and you find
yourself smiling as each step pounds
upon the sidewalk. My Cuban running mother was
right, the truth behind Jeff Galloway was his love for running which
fueled his desire to tell others to join in.
But as I looked past the starting line that fateful day, the next thirteen plus more miles would only consist of myself.
Jeff Galloway was nowhere to be found. With each mile I felt the exhaustion, but a smile was spread across my face like the runners on that cover.
