Run50 State 1, Kentucky Story 2: Derby Marathon and a half-year journal

After a year in the States, I honestly felt pretty bored. Add the pandemic, George Floyd, the election, and the winter storm, and it got even harder to pretend otherwise. A lot of people say life abroad means nice mountains, nice water, and a whole lot of boredom. I did not quite buy that. The mountains and water did not feel that amazing to me either.

The first half of 2021 probably began with moving. My landlord was a stubborn old man, and people said he was not easy to deal with. After talking to him twice, he reminded me a bit of the grandfather when he first appears in Heidi. In short, very stiff.

After moving into the new place and hibernating for a while, I figured I should go for a run and get to know the neighborhood. I followed the streets all the way downtown. The sky was gray, the city had little energy during the pandemic, and every now and then, when I passed under a bridge, a group of unhoused people would stare at me in a way that gave me chills.

I did not run far before I was completely worn out. None of my peak-era swagger was left. As a legendary runner, I was apparently not that zen after all.

So I quickly signed up for a half marathon, mostly to remind myself that I was, allegedly, a legend in the running world and could not keep getting this out of shape. Races were painfully rare during the pandemic, and the few that were happening were on park trails dozens of kilometers away, so I had to bite the bullet and pay for a ride.

The little half marathon at Broad Run Park had very few people. Because of COVID, everyone started separately, which made the road feel even lonelier. In the cold rain and wind at the end of January, I half-ran, half-walked my way to the finish.

There were surprises too. The yellow silo in the park looked so much like Wuhan's Lost Tower that it instantly caught my eye.

After the race, realizing that even a half marathon felt this hard made the problem very clear. I needed to get serious about training again.

Two months went by, and Derby arrived. It is Kentucky's biggest marathon, but this year, because of the pandemic, runners started across different days and time slots, so the atmosphere was not exactly lively.

Race day was cloudy again. The forecast had already told me I was destined to get soaked like a drenched chicken.

The first 30 kilometers were actually fine. The rain was light, and the rhythm felt comfortable, exactly the kind of pace a legendary runner likes. But the final dozen kilometers were genuinely rough, the total opposite of last year's Louisville Marathon. The wind pushed me around, and the heavy rain made me shiver.

There was warmth too. A race volunteer rode nearby with a bicycle and a medical bag, checking on me every so often with, "You good?" I would force a smile, give a thumbs-up, and signal that I was OK. That was the legendary runner's last bit of stubborn pride.

It took a lot of effort, but I finally made it back to the finish. By then the rain was heavier, there was nowhere to hide from it, and not even a cup of hot soup. The support this year really was not great.

After the race I spent more than forty dollars on race photos. Looking back at them, I looked rough, but at least in the photos I still seemed to be enjoying myself. That made it a pretty funny memory. At the very least, I had finished another marathon and could still call myself a legend.

In March and April I got two Pfizer shots, felt dizzy for two days, and by the end of April finally got my proper driver's license. Freedom to drive. It felt like some hidden channel in my life suddenly opened, and things became a lot more interesting.

America, as it turned out, was not that make-do after all. It seemed kind of okay.

I could check in at parks dozens of kilometers away and fly the drone.

I joined all kinds of small local runs and no longer had to worry about losing my bike.

I went hiking at Red River Gorge with Cindy's family, ate BBQ, watched a concert, and visited their home.

The happiest part was that normal big American marathons were about to come back. I really could not wait. Of course, as a "legendary runner," I still had to lose more than ten pounds first. One day, this legendary runner would live up to the name, not just use it as a joke.

Because of the cold wave this year, Louisville got a lot of snow. It felt a bit like being transported back to Northeast China overnight. The old landlord asked me to help shovel snow, and after chatting a little, I found out he had actually been to Harbin. He even showed me that he still tracked Harbin's weather.

The old man was not actually that stiff. Sometimes he was pretty fun.

A few days ago I saw a friend post photos from Yellowstone, and suddenly America's mountains and water did not seem so bad.

Recently the gym lifted its mask requirement, and my running slowly started to come back. Time, which had been stuck, began to move again.

In the first half of 2021, I watched the world move from deep winter into full summer, and the city move from lockdown back to open. There were more people on the streets again.

It felt like arriving in America all over again. Suddenly I thought: a city can be locked down, but people really should not be. After all, as a "legendary runner," I should be constantly expanding the borders of what I know.