When I ran my first marathon, I had heard the "B-word." Boston. I knew that it was out there, and I knew that you had to qualify in order to enter. I also knew that it wasn't an idea you just casually threw around in conversation. Like, "Oh, I think I might run Boston some day." I visited the Boston Athletic Association website and checked out said qualifying times; then I did the math and realized that I wasn't ever going to just accidentally and conveniently run a 3:40 and, "oops," qualify. If this was going to happen, I would have to make it happen. I would have to turn my 4:15 into a 3:40. Was 35 minutes (or lack there of) worth the time and effort. Was this even possible; was it something I could believe in?
To be honest, I wasn't sure, and I didn't make the decision right then. But I did continue to run . . . 4:15, 4:14, 4:03, 3:48. I think it was then, the moment I crossed the line at 3:48:35 that I realized 3:40 was in reach, if I wanted it. But every time I got all starry eyed thinking about standing at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, I would remember what that meant: going 3:40, in other words, running 8:20 miles, 26 times. And that was flipping fast. I still wasn't buying it.
Then last summer I reached my tipping point. I was driving a friend around, we were making small talk, and he asked me what I was currently training for. I told him I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. He asked me what time I needed to run, I told him, and without pause he responded, "Oh Kelly, you're not built for a 3:40!"
Maybe that was all I needed, someone to tell me I couldn't, because from that point forward I had a greater purpose, to do the "impossible." If you've ever been the underdog, you know there's nothing better than making the impossible, possible. So I trained, hard. I ran through the 110 degree Arizona summer, I woke at 4 am to start my 20 milers. I felt fast; I felt like 3:40 was becoming possible, but not guaranteed.
When the preparation was complete and the training was executed, I stood at the starting line wearing all green, as a reminder of my pursuit of Boston. Hopefully I could put my money where my outfit was. My plan was to run between 8:10 and 8:20 in the first half and buy myself as big of a cushion as possible. I would inevitably slow in the second half. But at 13 I felt fresh, SO fresh. I didn't need to back off at all. And for a moment I panicked. Was I sure that the qualifying time was 3:40? Because this felt too easy. I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule and l felt like I had flown over the first half of the course. Now I would put my feet on the ground and run. But I didn't just want to run. I wanted to race. And this was when I believed, knew, that I had made it happen. I was going to come in under 3:40, and it wasn't going to be by a few seconds. It wasn't going to come down to a last do or die 7 minute mile. I had put in the work and this was the reward. I didn't just believe, I knew. I ran with confidence, with elation. At 20 I ran without caution, without fear. I ran sub 8 minute miles and it wasn't until 23 that I paid for it. It was then that I finally settled into that 8:20 pace, those 8:20's that had scared me for so long, that had made me a non-believer. I came in that day having run a 3:31, averaging 8:05, and having negative split the whole race. I had undoubtedly qualified. And so began my following 48 hours . . .
That night I sat with a friend, having a celebratory drink and watching the Arizona Cardinals win the NFC conference championships and advance to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history: an improbable feat and the epitome of a Cinderella story. A day after this I watched again as the first African American took the oath of office: the son of a Kenyan man and a woman from Kansas, who had grown up between Indonesia and Hawaii. Talk about the ultimate long shot.
It seems like "impossible" continues to prove us wrong. Yet we still resist. So what will it take for us to believe in ourselves, in each other? Can we allow ourselves to be 49% pragmatist, 51% dreamer? Instead of naivete, can we call it faith? Can we replace our self imposed limits with open minds and open roads? What if we set lofty goals without fear of disappointment of unmet expectations? What if we wore green at the start and went out 10 seconds faster than we thought possible? What if we fought for every inch, first down after first down, believing in a team that few others did? What if we found ourselves inspiring a nation BECAUSE of our willingness to hope and believe?
Youth begs us to believe and age pressures us to be realistic. Failures, defeats and broken hearts try to convince us that low expectations mean low risk of disappointment. We grow older and we get harder. We want to believe, but we think believing is unwise, illogical. The thing is, when we look back on our greatest moments, or pivotal events in history, or sports, aren't they many times steeped in improbable circumstances, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and a minority of believers? Are these reasons NOT to believe, or are these required ingredients in man's greatest accomplishments?
What is so wrong with just believing? What is so unwise about hoping, planning, and acting? Why does having faith in ourselves or each other make us naive? Barack stands with his hand on Lincoln's bible, Cardinals lead in the last minute of the 43rd Super Bowl, with 9 minutes to spare, I qualify for Boston. So you tell me, what IMPOSSIBILITY should I NOT believe in next? Until the unbelievable things stop happening, I think I'll just keep on believing. I will use the "B-word" freely, because I am a proud "B"eliever.
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