By Amanda Knox

It turns out that I’m a sprinter. That is, as opposed to...what? A runner? Let me explain.

I survived the half-marathon! And I was surprised to discover something about myself that makes total sense now that I’ve discovered it, but wouldn’t have thought of in this way were it not that I just ran a half-marathon. It has to do with how I ran the half-marathon.

Last I left you, I had arrived in Park City, Utah and was about to run the North Face Endurance Challenge the next day. My understanding had been that the marathon route would be a long, 26.2 mile loop around the hillsides, of which I would run 13.1 miles all in one go. It turns out that, actually, the route my partner (a fun Frenchman friend named Fred) and I ran was a 6.55 mile loop which we would each run twice, in turns.

This break between half-half-marathons proved to be essential. Remember how I mentioned, last I left you, that the marathon route would start at 7,000ft of elevation and would rise another 3,000? That’s because we were running up and down a ski slope at a mountain resort. The trail we were running was actually a mountain bike trail that zigzagged up and down the slopes. It bowed in the center from the wear of so many bike wheels passing over, and there were plenty of jutting roots and sharp rocks to trip over and, as was the case of a young woman running just ahead of me, impale one’s hands upon.

My fear that I wasn’t ready proved true. The first 3+ miles of uphill winded me. The last 3+ miles of downhill tripped me up. I ran and, yes, walked at intervals according to my degree of exhaustion, feeling like I was going to throw up, and fearing I would trip and fall. Whether running or walking, it felt like slow-going, and the only times that I was able to accelerate to full speed was on the flat straightaway just before the finish line.

I worried I would disappoint Fred, my relay partner. I worried that my other friends, experienced runners also running the relay marathon, would pass me up. After the first exhausting loop, I was tempted to bow out of the second one.

Instead, I developed a method to get through it. Run until you can’t. Walk until you can. The running was more like jogging. The walking was more like lungeing. I didn’t want to lose speed, seeing how my strides were already so much smaller.

Only after I had finally crossed the finish line and had had the chance to nurse for a while on electrolyte-infused water and potato chips did my friends and I get the final results of run. And I was utterly surprised. I was the fastest runner.

“You’re a beast!” my friends cheered, equally surprised.
“You’re making me look bad,” Fred teased.

Of course, this was all in fun. My friends were much more experienced, efficient runners. None of them got close to passing out or throwing up. Where I needed to lie down, the rest of them were ready to drink beer at the after-party. They were runners. I discovered I was more of a sprinter.

What, my metaphysical friends, could be the implications?

There are different ways of getting through the same challenges. At the moment of the race, I didn’t know well what it would be like or what I was doing. I was very grounded in the present moment. Can I run? Do I need to walk? Can I walk faster? Now I can sprint! I was less able than my friends to coordinate my efforts according to the long haul, to pace myself in a way that I could maintain the entire 6.55 mile loop.

My challenge was an endurance of pieces, because my half-marathon was broken up into more than just two half-half-marathons. The entire journey I broke into differently-manageable increments. Across this straightaway I can jog. Up this ridge I must walk. Across the finish line I will sprint.

Whether climbing a hill or living life, it would serve me well to learn to pace myself for the long haul. But in the meantime, it turns out I’m not doing too bad by giving my all to every Amanda-sized interval. Good to know.