Five Days, Nine Weeks, and Beyond

A tangible reminder of my next race.

I received only one item of mail today, but it was an important one– my race number for the Martha's Vineyard 20-Miler this coming Saturday. Last year's race came in the heart of a frigid and snowy winter; this year, given the mild forecast and my own bravado, I may run in shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, with gloves and a hat to retain some bodily warmth. In any event, I'm eager to take part in this event for the fourth time in seven years, sharing with several hundred other runners the adventure of an early morning drive, a packed ferry ride, and a brisk spin around a picturesque island.

Like most folks who think it's quite desirable to utilize (and pay for) two modes of transportation and a modest entry fee to run 20 miles outdoors in the middle of a New England winter, I'm using Martha's Vineyard as a first big test of my progress towards the Boston Marathon, nine weeks away. It's my third time through this training cycle since I left St. Louis and moved to Worcester, and my first since switching assignments from teaching at a middle school to grant writing and informal ministry at a college. While I'm progressing smoothly thus far through the structure of my training plan, hopefully on pace to take aim at a sub-3-hour performance in April, I'm also pleased to notice that another, and even more important, training process seems to have regained its rhythm.

Although the 2010-2011 academic year made me increasingly aware that I wasn't entirely suited for the needs and demands of a middle school teaching position, leaving Nativity Worcester last June was a difficult move, even though I knew that it was the right decision. Finding my stride in a sudden transition to higher education– a new set of skills, a much different working environment, a host of organizational structures to learn and navigate, a much larger and more diverse group of colleagues– took most of last semester to accomplish, even though I seemed to adapt fairly swiftly. In the past week or so, I've noticed the comfort and poise that comes with having covered enough mileage– whether breaking new ground or retracing the well-worn paths of regular routines– to develop a genuine resonance between my own conditioning and the terrain of the course I'm running. My steps have not been without the occasional stumble, my growing confidence and delight not without the occasional doubt or disillusionment, but the way forward is clearer than it has been in a long time, and for that I'm deeply grateful. Whether or not these months ultimately put me on track for years of service and ministry in Jesuit higher education remains to be seen, but my progress along the course towards theological studies and preparation for ordination has some new spring in it, thanks be to God.

In five days, proudly wearing the number above on my high school cross-country singlet (12 years old and still a dear reminder of the four Philadelphia autumns that saw me fall in love with running), I'll make my way through a neighborhood of Victorian cottages, along a coastal wildlife refuge, and through an expansive forest in search of a targeted finishing time and a bowl of the best clam chowder in New England. I'll be moving 20 miles closer to the starting line of one of the best marathons in the world. And I'll be giving thanks for the renewed vitality of the training that's dearest to my heart– that of a gradually (and, I hope, gracefully) aging young man pursuing a call to Catholic priesthood, Christian discipleship, and companionship of God's people as a Jesuit.