Save Me, San Francisco: Surviving My First SF Run

Hello from San Francisco! 

If you missed my last blog post, first of all, shame on you, shame on your family, shame on your cow.

If you still didn’t read it, well, ultimately there were really only two important things you need to know:

1. I moved to San Francisco (if that wasn’t clear from the “Hello from San Francisco!” bit at the beginning)

2. I signed up for a marathon (and also a half marathon, but that’s not as important)

With those two things in mind, I will keep this introduction short and welcome you to: Thoughts While Going on a Run in SF, written by the only person who would move to one of the hilliest cities in America immediately after signing up for their first full marathon. 

Let’s begin.

Thoughts While Going on a Run in San Francisco

Stage 1: The Honeymoon Phase

I start my run, morale sky high. It’s a beautiful day in a brand new city and I’m feeling good. Nay, I’m feeling great. Unstoppable. I remember people saying the best way to sightsee in a new place is to run through it. I pat myself on the back for being one of ~those~ types of people and make my way down to the water, the perfect backdrop for a spectacular after work jog.

Stage 2: Hmm, It’s a Little Windy Out Here

This stage actually begins about a month ago, when I was getting my hair cut for the first time in a year and a half (yes you read that correctly) and I was feeling bold. I asked the hairdresser to style my hair so it framed my face, because new city, new me! Walking out of the salon, I felt like a million bucks. I was full of confidence as my luscious locks hugged my jawline in a way old split ends could never.

Flashforward 30 days, on a run, in a city surrounded by water, and those luscious locks quickly turn into strangling strands as they fall out of my ponytail and whip my face with the fury of a 1000 burning suns. 

Side note: about a year ago my friend Chappie told me I had become more dramatic in my old age. I have no idea what she could be referring to. 

Anyways, it is about this moment when I think to myself, “Hmm, San Francisco is a little windy,” closely followed by, “I will never leave my apartment without a hair restraining device (read: a headband) ever again.” See Exhibit A below.

Stage 3: Dang, This Hill is Kind of Steep (But That’s Okay Because It’s Going Down)

Around the same time I am coming to terms incessant hair/face attacks, I make a vital revelation about the location of my apartment: I live on the top of a hill. Now, I realize this should not have come as a shock considering, you know, San Francisco. I had not, however, factored it in to my plans from a day-to-day life perspective, something that will come to haunt me during my tenure in this city.

Now, at this point I am running down the hill so if anything I am applauding my quicker-than-normal pace as I fly down the street. I will admit, a small thought pops up reminding me that I will eventually need to run back up the hill. This is quickly squashed, though, as it is a problem for a later Megan. Therefore, we continue.

Stage 4: Do You Think That Is From A Dog Or A Human?

Running in SF is finding the delicate balance of looking up to see the beautiful scenery around you and looking down to avoid stepping in something of dubious origin. You can’t quite tell if it’s human or animal generated, and to be honest you’d prefer not to find out. 

Stage 5: Toto, We Aren’t In Ireland Anymore

Picture me, your slightly asthmatic, doing her best, forgot-to-take-her-inhaler (again) narrator running along the streets of San Francisco fighting for each breath in her mucous-filled lungs. But then, every 30 seconds or so, a fellow runner jogs by, clad in sleek lululemon running shorts or a perfectly matching workout set absolutely gliding across the pavement. I watch in awe as they sweep past me and I am lost in their metaphorical dust (let’s be honest, they don’t have dust on them, they don’t even have a bead of sweat). I stare openly at their effortless trot, but at this point they are far enough past me that they have no idea of my distant adoration.

People in SF are pretty, they’re put together, they’re fit, but also low-key about it? It’s LA’s techy, understated cousin, and very far from the Irish countryside where my only running partners were sheep on the side of the road.

Stage 6: What Goes Down Must Go Back Up

I reach the final stretch of my run only to be confronted with the problem past Megan so casually discounted in Stage 3. That’s right sports fans, I reach the hill back up to my apartment. I begin my ascent and am swiftly and thoroughly humbled in every way. As I struggle back up to my home I vehemently curse hills, wind, my asthmatic lungs, San Francisco, the person who just ran past me, running as an entire category of physical activity, my deep-seeded need to prove my capability in doing hard things, and the exact moment I signed up for this stupid marathon in the first place. 

Stage 7: Never Again (Until Tomorrow)

Finally, as my comfort running song reaches a crescendo, I see the beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. Queen Latifah is belting in my ears as I approach the street sign signifying the finish line, home, an electrolyte drink, and all things good and happy in this world. I enter my building crawl up the four flights of stairs to my apartment, chug fluids, collapse on the floor, and pat myself on a job well done. I promise myself that I will never put myself through such level of torture again, until of course, the next time I go on a run.

This is SF, this is marathon training, this is my life now. And I love it.