I Was a Professional at Running from Myself

But my husband kept my confidence on a short leash

Runners two years ago in Charleston, S.C.

Now that it’s getting warmer, I see more people running outside. Although I can no longer run due to the massive injuries I sustained in an accident nearly three years ago, I was a devoted runner for 36 years, and running was something that brought me peace and comfort.

Joseph, my second husband, was a positive and helpful supporter of my running when I trained for my first marathon. Looking back, I see that I was so thrilled with his help and support that I didn’t realize how easily he took advantage of my vulnerability and made me feel inferior.

A commercial for a local marathon, with motivational music and heartwarming images, caught my attention just after I had my third child.

I thought it looked like fun. This behavior is typical of me, to go whole hog and forget the little stuff. A different me steps in each time I decide to, or need to, do something different. The stronger version of me can run a marathon. I bought a training book on how to train for and run a full marathon and followed it step by step.

“Running in thin air might be rough. Your body isn’t used to it,” Joseph warned me prior to my ten-mile morning run when we were in Lake Tahoe.

On the contrary, I ran at a comfortable pace, just over nine minutes per mile, and my recovery was significantly better than my runs had been lately. My lungs drank in the fabulous cool mountain air and wanted to hold it in, compared to how hard the dry heat was where we lived, in the high desert.

A rented cherry red Mustang was what Joseph drove to map out 16 miles for me to run around the mountain near our neighborhood. Ripples from backyard pools danced on fences. Intentionally slowing my pace as I approached sprinklers, I hugged the edge of the street. Water droplets cooled me; I closed my eyes and opened my hands, letting the spray land on my sweaty palms and deeply inhaled nutrient-rich soil.

Following a few deep recovery breaths upon my return, I said, “That was a difficult run, with all those hills on such a hot day. I like running by the bison. I needed a challenge like that; thank you.”

“I have a surprise for you.”

While I soaked in a bubble bath in our enormous oval tub, he sat on the edge and rubbed my feet. “During your run, I put together a bistro set on our back porch and a little wooden park bench painted with animals for the kids. I can’t wait for you to see them.”

Later, Joseph played ball and Frisbee and repeatedly threw the Hi-Wire across the yard to my two older kids.

After the kids went to bed, Joseph drew a steaming bubble bath for us, scented candles providing minimal light. He climbed in behind me. “I’ve run Ultramarathons. Those are over a hundred miles.”

“That sounds like something for elite athletes.”

He chuckled as though my little mind couldn’t comprehend. “I used to be in top shape. I always like to try exciting, challenging things. They gave me a gigantic belt buckle for completing it.”

I asked where proof of such a fantastic accomplishment is, and he demeaned anyone who would hang onto a self-indulgent piece of one’s history. “You know I’m not like that, Joy. Why would I keep something so flashy?”

The articles I’d read in Runner’s World magazine told me hundreds of thousands of people run in marathons worldwide every year. It was no big deal, and I was ashamed that I felt good about working toward just a regular marathon.

In early June, we left for San Diego, checked into the Hilton, and walked to the Convention Center across the street for the Health Expo, where I picked up my number and timing chip for the marathon.

Later, he drove us along most of the marathon course. “The weather should be perfect, and you’ll have few hills.”

We got to bed late, and Joseph stayed up with Kauai, our infant, seated next to our window, looking out over the city. I was up in the middle of the night while it was pitch dark outside. Like me, Joseph was a light sleeper. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you at the finish line.”

He whispered encouragement before I walked out the door, down the stairs, and waited for the bus to take a group of us to the starting line. I didn’t know a soul.

Joseph had told me to watch for Kauai and him around mile five, and I frantically looked as I jogged past but didn’t see them. I’d hoped to see them somewhere along the route but never did. Energized, I never hit the ‘brick wall’ I read about in the runner’s magazines and training guides. I soared effortlessly past mile 22, felt no pain, and wondered if I was dreaming how simple the race was. I crossed the finish line, where an older man with kind eyes congratulated me, placed a medal over my neck, and wrapped a foil blanket around my shoulders.

After I weaved through the maze of food and drink tables, I found Joseph leaning against a shade tree, holding a smiling Kauai. I reached for her. “I feel phenomenal,” I yelled over the band playing near the beer tent.

We walked to a bus, which carried us to endless parking lots, and treaded through blocks of vehicles to reach ours. Joseph drove us to a nearby mall. “I insist you pick out a new pair of sandals since your feet are swollen.”

“You’re right; that never would’ve crossed my mind. I feel like a fool, having read those training guides yet unaware of the pronounced effect running more than two dozen miles would have on my feet.”

New sandals were exactly what I needed; my feet felt free, and I was relieved.

Sometimes, when we’re in our element and doing something that brings us joy and makes us happy, and someone finally sees us, we may not recognize the not-so-kind parts about them. This is just one aspect of what makes psychopaths so successful.

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