Learning from Debbie Goodison
NBC associate news producer Debbie Goodison went from taking an occasional jog through her neighbourhood park to jetting 13.1 miles in Negril, Jamaica’s Reggae Half-Marathon last December. Here, in her won words, Goodison shares how she got hooked on putting one foot in front of the other and how you can follow in her steadfast footsteps.
My alarm clock jolted me awake at 4:30 am and for a moment, I lay in bed wondering if I was crazy. Here I was in gorgeous Negril, Jamaica. While most people would be heading to the beach with a bottle of lotion in one hand and some rum punch in the other, I was actually getting ready to run in the first ever Reggae Half-Marathon. Before I could roll over and hit snooze, a familiar mixture of tension and excitement washed over me, and it felt…good. I climbed out of bed remembering why I fell in love with running in the first place.
It happened quite by accident. I was working on a story with a friend at NBC News five years ago who was training for the New York City Marathon. I had watched marathons on television and wondered why people would put themselves through such torture. Yet, as I listened to my friend talk proudly about completing the ultimate fitness challenge, I became inspired. I had also heard others talk about discovering how immensely powerful and strong their bodies really were, about a euphoric runner’s high they got when crossing the finish line. If this fellow (thirty-something) could run marathons and live to tell the tale, couldn’t I ?
The New York City Marathon was a mere eight months away when I decided to start training. The furthest I had ever run non-stop was three miles. No doubt I had a lot of ground to cover. At the outset, I ran almost every day, and it wasn’t easy. Since I had no energy at night and an unpredictable work schedule, I would awaken at 5:30 am to run. I’d never been through boot camp but I figured this must be close. Some mornings my muscles ashed like crazy and my first mile would be such a struggle I scolded myself for taking on such an exhausting goal.
But then an amazing thing happened. My burden runs became a blessing. As I crept out the door and headed to the park, I came to see my runs as an opportunity to marvel at God’s creations before the wild hustle and bustle city life began. I realised I had forgotten about some of the simpler pleasures in life after emigrating from the Caribbean more than a decade ago. I came to cherish this time to smell the crisp, cool air and revel in watching the sun rise and twinkle through the trees.
My body adapted very quickly to the rigours of running and within two weeks, I was shocked to find I went from going three miles to seven. I would run one three-mile lap around the park in about half-an- hour, take a short break, then do another. Before I knew it, I didn’t have to take breaks anymore. Each progress I noticed — from shaving seconds off my time to discovering muscles in my legs I never knew I had — was enough to keep me pressing on. In May, after running on my own for 10 weeks. I signed up for running classes with the New York Road Runners Organisation. Once a week, we did hill training or speed work outs and with them, I gradually felt faster and stronger.
By the time July rolled around, I was running an average of 25 miles each week and enjoying every stride. Nothing could beat the triumphant feeling after a particularly hard run; plus, my extra pounds were melting away. I dropped a whole dress size and I was still able to “reward” myself with my favourite Caribbean pastries, like pine tarts and currant rolls, without guilt! I began following the New York Road Runners training schedule that month, which included longer runs of 15 to 20 miles so I would have the necessary endurance. I also joined a track club where I met other runners in training and the weekly group runs helped take my mind off those seemingly endless miles.
There were times the longer runs would be tough. In August, I remember running a 18.6-mile Marathon Tune-up race and believe it or not, with only one mile to go, I gave up and started walking. Before I knew it, a friend from my running class saw me and said, “Come on, you can do it!” I needed that little vote of confidence to get over my psychological barrier to finishing the race.
I discovered that marathon training also entailed mental preparation and I vowed never to let myself become so pysched out about a run.
When D-Day finally arrived in November, my stomach was so tense it felt like it was lined with hot curry powder. But I was relieved that the hardest part — the training — was over and it was time to celebrate. Imagine inviting the world to a giant block party where the guests would run 26.2 gruelling miles through New York’s five boroughs. The roar of the crowds lining both sides of the streets was often deafening but it helped propel me along. Some of the more energetic onlookers were sisters and brothers who supported me as if I were a member of their own family. “You go girl!” or “Show them how it’s done!” they said, pumping their fists in the air. Others put out boom boxes blasting Motion hits like Martha Reeves and the Vandellas’ No Where to Run.
When I finished four hours and 24 minutes later, I was bursting with pride. As the volunteer draped the medal around my neck, I felt that I had climbed the highest mountain. I had conquered the unimaginable. After running more than 26 miles, I knew that in life, the only limits you have are the ones you place on yourself.
So at 5:45 am, as I stood under the canopy of Jamaican stars, listening to African drumbeats signal the start of the Reggae Half-Marathon, I was ready to get it on. Once again I would experience the thrill of pushing myself to the limit and discovering the winner inside of me.
-Reprinted from Heart and Soul, May 2002 Issue.
