Zibby Mag

By Jessica Power Braun

At the starting line, I tried to tune out my surroundings and focus on my own race. But all I could see was my husband Phil beside me, doing his weird pre-race ritual of deep lunges. All I could hear was his loud yoga breathing. Adrenaline coursed through my arms and legs. As I glimpsed Phil doing some kind of ballet-kick agility drill, I was consumed by one singular thought: I am going to kick your ass.

The local 5K marked the training kick-off for the half-marathon we planned to run a few weeks later — a half-marathon I had originally planned on running alone. One night while brushing our teeth, I told Phil that I had signed up.

“Huh,” he said, hands poised mid-floss. “Maybe I’ll do it, too. I need a goal to get rid of this,” he said, grabbing his midsection.

I was put off by his response but wasn’t sure why.

I used to love having Phil as a running partner but once kids entered the picture, running became more of a relay than a shared activity. We passed the baby baton as one person walked through the door and the other ran out.

Over the years, Phil ran less and less, opting for a quick gym session before work over a long, leisurely run. As a stay-at-home mom, running became my sanity, my reset button, my alone time. Running was no longer a couple thing — it was my thing.

I tried to keep an open mind about the race. Maybe Phil saw the half-marathon as an attempt to reconnect as a couple. Perhaps he wanted to recapture the youthful optimism of our early years together when we ran together at twilight. As our feet hit the pavement in unison, we would talk about our future together, with kids and a house with a big wrap-around porch.

He was making an effort, so I vowed to give “couples-running” another try.

The morning of the 5K, as we pinned our numbers to our shirts over early-morning coffee, Phil said with a wink, “If you can’t find me at the finish, it means I am already in the massage tent.” I knew he was being his jocular self but his words ignited a fire inside me — something that said: Game On.

As a stay-at-home mom, running became my sanity, my reset button, my alone time. Running was no longer a couple thing — it was my thing.

The gun went off and what had started as a charity 5K became the Hunger Games. I was a woman who ran with wolves. I bobbed and weaved through the crowd, off-roaded onto people’s lawns, jumped off curbs, and outran strollers. At the first mile marker, I peed my pants a little. I was in the zone. The world around me dimmed and all I could hear was my own breath, the blood pumping in my ears, and the voice that said: Beat him.

But Phil is a tenacious competitor. I could sense him behind me every step of the way, chuckling as I hurdled over sprinklers and snaked through crowds of pumping spandex. I ran the last quarter mile like I was being chased by an ax murderer. When I crossed the finish line, I almost puked. But it was worth it.

Until our times were posted:

Jessica Braun, F, Time: 24:20 Pace: 7:37

Phil Braun, M, Time: 24:20 Pace: 7:37

“How is that possible?” I said to Phil. “You were BEHIND ME.”

“Actually,” he said, “I was beside you, but you were too out for blood to notice.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to laugh it off. I was being ridiculous. It was a 5K, who cares? But inside I felt robbed of something that was mine.

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I had always secretly believed that I “married up” with Phil. He’s the life of the party, I’m the first one to leave. He’s a math genius, I count on my fingers. In college, he volunteered with the handicapped and installed pipes to a clean water source in a village in Panama all while maintaining a full academic scholarship. I smoked a lot of pot and failed a class on maps.

There were so many areas of life where I could never compete with him, so I never really tried. I deferred to him on finances. I answered questions with “let me ask my husband.” I read his horoscope before I read my own. Running was the one area where I was a worthy opponent. When Phil met my time in the 5K, I felt outmatched yet again. And I was pissed.

This became evident later that night while loading the dishwasher. When Phil mansplained that “all plates must face the same direction for maximum plates in minimum space,” I lost my mind. His innocent albeit annoying comment blew the lid off all my insecurity percolating beneath the surface. A fight about plates became one about everything else.

“The problem is,” I said through tears, “ that I believe I got lucky in marrying you, but you don’t feel that way about me.”

“No,” he said, closing the dishwasher. “The problem is that you don’t feel that way about yourself. I feel lucky that we found each other. Don’t resent me for being on a pedestal you put me on.” Then he took the dog for a walk, leaving me to stew in my feelings of inadequacy.

There was comfort in performing a solitary act in tandem. Each runner is an individual on a personal journey, but you are bonded to each other by the race, by the shared goal.

My decision to stay home with my kids shifted the power dynamic in my marriage. Phil’s day focused on making money while mine revolved around spending it: groceries, lacrosse equipment, guitar lessons. On a practical level, this worked but over time I started to feel myself disappear.

I had worked a variety of jobs before my kids, but my dream had always been to be a writer. I took the occasional class and wrote a blog, but I considered this a frivolous hobby. Because Phil was the breadwinner, I began to give his life precedence. Everything I did seemed to hinge on him: his work, his schedule, his goals. I couldn’t remember a time I had a goal that didn’t involve my home life.

Except for running 13.1 miles. That was a goal that was all mine.

The half-marathon was a few weeks after the contentious 5K. Phil and I decided to run together for the first 5 miles, and then run our own races until the finish. Around mile 6, as I ran alone along Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River, I saw hundreds of runners cross Falls Bridge, and felt strangely connected to them.

There was comfort in performing a solitary act in tandem. Each runner is an individual on a personal journey, but you are bonded to each other by the race, by the shared goal. There is a sense of solidarity as you move together in the same direction.

Maybe, I thought, marriage is kind of the same thing.

When I crossed the finish line ten minutes before Phil, I expected to feel like a bad-ass. Instead, I felt lonely. I collected my medal, but could not process the joy of finishing until I shared it with him. I pushed through a fog of silver blankets until finally, there he was smiling at me, arm raised for a high-five. I started crying as I buried my face into his sweaty chest.

Phil had never made me feel inferior — only I could do that. I was terrified to step out of my role as a mom only to realize I didn’t have what it takes to be a “real” writer. Rather than trust him enough to support and encourage my writing, I used him as an excuse to stay safe and small.

The half-marathon win felt empty because I was competing with someone who was already on my team. Phil had always loved me, but I needed to believe I was worth loving for it to matter. It wasn’t about winning or losing, but running beside each other. We have to run our own race, together.

The metaphorical marriage race, that is — in couples-running, it’s every spouse for themselves.

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Jessica Power Braun’s writing has been published in Literary Mama, Hippocampus, the Philadelphia Inquirer, and the New York Times Tiny Love Stories anthology. She lives in coastal Massachusetts with her husband and two daughters, where she is currently working on her first collection of essays.