Can't Stop, Won't Stop Moving: How Taylor Swift Shook Me Up

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Waiting for the start
photo by J. Kriston

Ow, Ow, Ouch! Ow, Ow, Ouch! That has been my mantra for the last six months as I trained for the 5K, or 3.1 mile run, I just completed.

I suggested running this race to my daughter many months ago thinking it would be a good way to share in something she loved (and to get back into shape after my perimenopausal state took my body away from me).

Of course, the moment that I clicked the buy now button to pay for our registration to the event, I remembered that my body is broken. Then, I became a bit smug. I thought to myself, No big deal. It’ll be fine.

Unfortunately, my herniated and bulging discs, my advancing arthritis, and my degenerative joint disorder did not have the same optimism and go get ‘em attitude that my brain had. 

They really need to get together on these matters.

I have never been a great athlete, not because I lack skill, but because I lack strength, stamina, and determination. My life long motto has been, If I am running call the police because someone is chasing me with a knife.

Nevertheless, I persisted

I found myself several times a week on the treadmill or in the neighborhood huffing and puffing myself through 2-3 miles of slow jogging. Inevitably and repeatedly, I injured myself either causing my Achilles to inflame or my ankle to throb or my hip to lock-up and cause shooting pains through my side. My chiropractor worked his magic coaxing the muscles, joints, and tendons back into place and forcing them to become stronger.

He even taught me that my running stride was incorrect. So, I adjusted my heel to toe foot fall, allowing the center of my foot to hit the ground first.

Click here for more on the heel strike

My training never went as planned. Aside from the constant injuries and pain, I became ill for several weeks forcing long breaks. Initially, I believed I would drop fifteen pounds, have abs of steel (like the real life models from that damn Title Nine catalog that keeps taunting me), and build enough stamina and speed that I would finish in the top ten of my age group.

A cruel model from the Title Nine catalog

The media would catch wind of my amazing feat. The headlines would read First Time Runner Places in the 5K at the Advanced Age of 47.  The world would be wowed by my athleticism.

That didn’t happen.

As I gimped and limped myself through my day to day activities, I wondered if I would actually be able to run the race. I knew I could always walk it, but I was in it for the run. I tried to convince my daughter to scratch the race. I used the logic that she had a big test and late night track meet the night before, she would be too tired to run. Plus, it was going to be rainy and cold. We should just stay home and rest.

She didn’t bite.

So, on Saturday morning we woke at the crack of dawn, after getting to bed at midnight, and drove our way through the rain and darkness to the city, an hour and a half away. We gathered in the parking lot with thousands of others who stood shivering in the cold drizzle listening to loud, upbeat music trying to stay warm by running in place.

Though shivering, exhausted, and hungry, I was truly glad we didn't scratch.

The runners started to gather in a queue jostling for position. In that moment, I became emotional. I fought back tears. Was I scared, happy, tired…? I am not sure what moved me, but I did not have long to consider it as the gun shot and the crowd of runners inched their way over the start line. It was nearly a minute of shuffling before I began my 3.1 mile journey to the finish.

My daughter left me eating her dust.

My playlist of upbeat songs, which I chose to keep me at doable pace, filled my ears as I focused my eyes to the ground and the various legging swathed butts in front of me. People of all shapes, sizes, and ages surrounded me then passed me. Kids zipped in and out of the foot traffic nearly tripping-up everyone in their way. Moms and dads holding the hands of their preschoolers passed me. A ninety-year-old man and his lovely wife passed me.

I didn’t care

I kept focused on my music, the pavement, and all the butts as I ran, well jogged, onward. After a mile, I kept running. My first goal was to not walk for at least one mile. Goal met!

I passed a water station and took my paper cup, drinking the cool liquid. My throat was dry. I spilled most of it on my face and jacket. My throat was still dry. I swiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and crushed that cup throwing it to the ground the way real athletes do.

Then I saw the row of garbage cans lined up for the empty cups. Oops, sorry about that clean-up crew.

I continued running, but I walked briefly after I realized my lungs might explode. Shortly, I re-started my jogging pace and passed a few people. The shuffle mode on my IPhone must have sensed when I needed a more upbeat song because each time I faded it would play what I needed to hear to keep me moving. Bruno Mars’, Up Town Funk pushed me out of my walk mode as did Avril Lavigne’s, Girlfriend.

Roberto Clemente Bridge

Though terrified of heights, I knew I was going to have to cross The Roberto Clemente Bridge which spanned across the Allegheny or Ohio or Monongahela river (damn Pittsburgh and it’s three rivers) which swelled and raged below. I anticipated fainting or freezing-up as I approached that bright, yellow, steel bridge. Like a dog who refuses to go into a tub or a pool, I would dig my feet into the ground making my body stiff and heavy with refusal as a race official dragged me by my shirt collar across the bridge, the rubber soles of my shoes leaving skid marks. Fortunately, this was near the end of the race so my exhausted and oxygen deprived body didn’t give a rat’s ass about the damn bridge.

Taylor Swift Running

But I keep cruising
Can't stop, won't stop moving

It's like I got this music in my mind

Saying it's gonna be alright

(Shake It Off chorus)

After I crossed that bridge, fatigue racked my body and I wanted to pass out. Then, two things happened. First, Taylor Swift started singing Shake It Off and I filled with instant energy. The beat of that song was what I needed to put the pep back into my step. Second, I looked up and saw the big yellow and black #3 sign. Holy Shit! I was nearly done. Just .1 mile to go.

I never miss a beat, I'm lightning on my feet

And that's what they don’t see, that's what they don’t see

(more Shake It Off lyrics)

I pulled my phone out to take a picture of the beautiful sign. With the music blasting in my ear, I barely heard the shouts of “Mam. Mam. Excuse me mam.” I hate being called “mam,” but I realized that it was probably the press or a photographer wanting to capture the moment that I, a 47-year-old, first time 5K participant completed the race with such amazing speed and grace.

I slowed my already incredibly sluggish pace to acknowledge my admirer. It was a youngish woman who waved a plastic card at me as she shouted, “You dropped this, mam. It fell out of your pocket when you got your phone out.” She didn’t even want my picture. She just zipped past, thrusting my hotel key at me, to finish in front of me. Sigh.

The Finish Line
Photo by Liz Kriston

I turned the corner and saw the big inflatable finish line. If I had enough energy, I would have cried for sure. Instead, I stumbled across the line, trying not to collapse, searching for my husband. I saw his dazzling smile and felt relieved and proud. The one thing I knew for certain in that moment was I AM NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN.

(I did notice that I met my second and last goal, I finished in 36 minutes. Later, I discovered my official time was 35.14! I was 60th for my age group which had 123 participants.)

I hobbled my way down the road accepting my medal and then my bottled water (which I threw into the recycling container when I was done, not on the ground) and my banana and I kept walking down the road and walking and walking between the barricades and barriers wondering, How in the hell do I escape this never-ending cage of barriers!

Me gasping for air, physically unable to smile
Photo by J. Kriston

My daughter led me to the exit. We hugged, took some photos, and then, my family walked and I gimped and limped, crying out my Ow, Ow, Ouch, off into the wind and rain in search of a cocktail for me, and secretly, for T. Swift too.