Leah vs. The Virginia 10-Miler

 “Oh gosh, what am I doing?” was the question that blasted through my head 15 seconds before 8am on September 28.

To set the scene around that thought, I need to add a few more essential details. I was actually standing about two rows behind a huge starting line in Lynchburg, Virginia. My palms were sweating a bit as I double-checked my watch to make sure my GPS signal would fail me. Not here, not now. 

Of course, I was at a race. That’s been a common thing this year: racing. Jumping into whatever race suited my fancy, running as fast as I reasonably could without destroying my ability to stand upright (I still have a hard time gauging that, as I routinely find myself leaning sideways or sprawling knees-first after a race of any distance). I am no stranger to the starting line. 

However, this starting line was a little different. I did not choose this starting line. Two months before September 28, I had no plans to be in Lynchburg, VA. I was actually in Battleground, Washington recovering from a two-week adventure called the Steens Mountain High Altitude Running Camp. After running on top of a mountain alongside some of the strongest high schoolers in the nation, making sure that they didn’t fall into a canyon, physical and mental recovery was mandatory. 

During this recovery, I came to grips with what my mind wanted (and what it didn’t want). I wanted to stay out West. I did not want to go home to the mountains of Virginia. I dreaded returning to the East Coast. You see, I had a lot to face upon returning to my home and my responsibilities. Being in a PhD program (paired with being an adult in your 20s) exposes your best dreams and worst nightmares. It spins you through phases of mania and passion for the sciences and slams you into the concrete wall that is depression and despair. My life as a PhD student had become an enhanced Call of Duty battleground with no cheat sheet. So naturally, I wanted to stay out West—in Portland, selling coffee and flowers. 

Thankfully, a few things came to light that compelled me to return (one being the airplane ticket that I had purchased on a graduate student stipend). Oddly enough, the largest thing that enticed me to return came in a brief email. As I opened my email account to briefly glance over the onslaught of spam that I had committed my childhood account to, my eyes latched onto the words “2024 Moore & Giles Virginia 10-Miler.” I had seen this subject line before but didn’t give it any attention. This time, however, I was still enough to read the whole email. 

The email was an invitation—an invitation to race as an elite runner in the Virginia 10-Miler. This invitation was paired with the promise of free entry, a Friday luncheon, and free lodging. There was also an opportunity to compete for cash awards. After a reassuring conversation with the race director, I accepted the fact that this invitation was real and that my presence at this race was wanted. 

With these facts in mind, I stood up from where I was resting and grabbed my journal. It was time to write up a training plan. If I was going to compete as an elite athlete, I needed to have an elite plan. I did research on the mileage I would need to commit to, the paces I needed to train in, and the cross-training I would need to get to the line and perform well. I then realized that returning to the East Coast was mandatory and that I wanted to return home.

My wish was soon granted, and I arrived home with a sparkle in my eye. 

I began to follow my training plan: a combination of well-paced, intentional runs and long swim sessions over the course of 10 weeks. I trained in solitude and I trained alongside friends. I loved keeping track of my workouts and the feeling of well-deserved exhaustion after long workouts. 

The excitement for this race spilled over into other parts of my life. I was excited to return to work; preparing for a dissertation project and another fantastic semester of teaching. I really love that God gives me a big reason to smile about everything with the anticipation of something else. He is so kind. 

Two and a half months after reading that email, I placed my backpack/briefcase/purse into my car and drove up to Lynchburg, Virginia. It was the day before the race, and I was going to pick up my race packet and meet the family that had offered to host me the night before the race. 

You would think that I would be super nervous about meeting a bunch of new people in the span of less than 24 hours. Honestly, I was there for an adventure I was invited to; open to any good experience that would be provided. 

After picking up my race packet and asking five different volunteers about the course, I went to meet my host family. After I parked my car in the driveway of two strangers, I was met “literally” with open arms. The couple I stayed with was full of joy—a steady joy that seemed to permeate their house. I won’t go into all the details…this is not a novel, but I appreciate the Father for letting me spend time with people who loved Jesus and the people that He placed in front of them. They got me excited about the new day and about life. I laughed and smiled a lot that Friday evening and well into the next day. 

The next morning was a blur—waking up, putting my race kit on, choking down breakfast, driving to the race, and finding the start line. I abruptly found myself at the scene set at the beginning of this tale: in the second row of a mass of elite runners, nervously chuckling at this flavor of adventure that I was in the middle of. 

The gun went off and over 3,000 runners sprinted like mad. People everywhere, including myself, were running as if it was a 5k and not a 10-miler. After 30 seconds, I worked to remember the pace that I was aiming for. The primary plan that I drafted was to maintain a near-even place through the hilly course. I had memorized the elevation map in the weeks before the race in an effort to be ready for the race. It was difficult to find a solid pace during the first mile, as the first 1.5 miles was a downhill slope.

I approached the first mile marker with a decent level of momentum. The energy from fellow runners was awesome, and there were so many locals watching us race and cheering us along. The effort to pace myself was soon put on the back burner, and I embraced that. The hills that appeared during the second mile of the race called for an effort-based adjustment: I was going to do my best to make a strong effort.

Making a strong effort was a different story for each mile. After two miles, I reminded myself that I was not tired and that I had eight more miles left. Halfway through the second hill of the third mile, I told myself not to walk…but it was okay to shuffle. When I finally saw the volunteers passing out water during mile four, I grasped one of the thousands of flimsy white cups as if it were the key to life. Mile five was spent dreaming of all the downhills I would run on the way to the finish line. During mile six, I had to tell myself to stop shuffling while recovering from a major hill. Once I pulled myself together, mile seven was spent quietly celebrating the fact that I had maybe 25 minutes left in the race (and I wasn’t sure about that, either). Within miles eight and nine, I found myself clinging to dear life to a small group of runners in an effort to stay focused. I had resigned myself to finishing the race…I just wasn’t sure what that would look like given the state of my legs after hours of (minutes, guys…I’m being dramatic) running. The final 1.5 miles were uphill, and I took it on like a warrior. No, I did not sprint up the hill, but I most definitely ran at an effort that I thought was quick. 

The closer I got to the finish line, the louder the voices of the locals rang in my ear. Honestly, the cheering gave me the energy I needed to get through the final minute of the race. I began to run faster, alongside amazing people who had finished before. As I crossed the finish line, a rush of relief engulfed me. I had done it—I had finished the race. Truthfully, that was one of the hardest races of my life. I had never experienced a race where every mile was its own story—its own flavor of difficulty and adventure. A volunteer handed me a medal, and despite my exhaustion—I was pumped. 

I went back to cheer for other people. Like those who cheered and ran alongside me after they finished, I wanted to let others know that this was the best part of the race—conquering the uphill and running straight into their own personal victories. 

I was hesitant about looking at my results. Personally, the race was a fight scene for me, and I felt I had just barely won. I finished the race with a time of 1:16:11, holding an average pace of 7:37 (honestly, the individual paces of each mile ranged from 6:31 to 8:24). To my pleasant surprise, I placed 189th out of 1890 runners, and 34thout of 807 women. 

I returned to the home of my new friends (my host family) and gave a recap of my adventure through the streets of Lynchburg. I was happy with my experience, and they cheered me on and made me excited about returning next year as an experienced racer, ready to destroy the hills that almost took me out. 

I returned home absolutely exhausted. As I pulled back the covers at 4:00 that Saturday afternoon for bedtime, I began to mentally plan my training regimen for next year’s race. It is going to be fantastic. 

In the present moment, however; I am on hiatus from running. I need to try new things and give my feet a break. I’ll be back in a month, so stay tuned because I am not done racing yet!

                                                                                                                                        ~Aubrey Leah