Gabriella Opaz

In my oh-so-memorable days of high school, I compiled a mental check list of excuses I could conveniently access whenever my overweight and heavily mustached gym teacher required a 1 mile run from us. They ranged from my stomach pains offset from the pre-packaged bologna laid passively between two white cardboard pieces of bread my father loved to stock up on from Cosco to a rare virus that made my legs feel weak and incapable of movement. I even tried the bunion excuse my grandmother taught me in her aging testimonials of perpetual aches and pain, but Mr. Smith rarely bought it. He would smile, shake his head in sympathy and offered me a choice: run or sit on the sideline away from my peers.

One might imagine that sitting alone on the large field on a beautiful spring day, watching the changing colors of the oak leaves sway before you, would be the ideal option for any struggling 15 year old, but part of school politics required participation. A lack of participation equated to a large “L” pasted on your forehead, signaling to your peers that you’re weak and incapable suffering the same torturous exercise as the rest. Lacking complete and total confidence in myself, I learned rather quickly that it was better to duck out of class entirely, choosing the wrath of my mother over the painstaking shame I felt from my peers.

A few years ago, Ryan and I spent Christmas at his aunt and uncle’s house in Norway, where outdoor activity is synonymous with cod – what day would possibly be complete with out it? Having enjoyed a few bottles of wine at dinner, the family sat satiated and content when his aunt turned to me and proposed a “girl’s run” the following day.

“A run?” I repeated back in terror.

“Sure! We head up to the mountains just 15 minutes from here all the time and enjoy the fresh air” she replied.

“You’re serious?! A run?!”

Mind you, this was December, and the thought of running up mountains in frigid temperatures, while the sun only pretends to peek its head over the fjords, was equivalent to suicide for me, but my pride took over.

“Sure, that sounds like fun!” If my nose could have grown in proportion to the lie I had just slipped, family members would have been hitting the deck for dear life.

I couldn’t sleep that night. My heart wouldn’t settle into a restful pace! What if I couldn’t breathe? What if I only got a quarter up the hill and had to stop because legs were too sore? What if I just couldn’t make it? It had been a decade since I ran on anything that didn’t resemble a gerbil’s toy, and the notion of having to physically perpetuate myself forward by my own validation seemed hellish.

The following morning, I donned my running shoes, a wool cap, long underwear and I ran. I ran until my legs ached, but the feeling was ethereal. I loved it! For the first time, my whole body felt alive, pulsing, vibrant and full of energy. I cursed myself for letting my mind get the best of me for so many years, perpetuating the idea that I couldn’t run. But like any mental block, it only takes facing the fear to evaporate the feeling.

Carretera de les Aigües hugs the mountain overlooking Barcelona offering miles of undulating dirt road with a priceless view of Barcelona. Struggling from the heat, with sweat pouring down my face, I couldn’t help but smile when going out for a 10 mile run yesterday.

If only Mr Smith could see me now.

Gabriella Opaz