Even If I Can’t Run, I Can Walk

It was my second spring since becoming a high school student. The weather was becoming warmer day by day. Several months had passed since I had returned to my everyday life after leaving the hospital. I was doing my best to adapt to school life, fighting off the drowsiness that overwhelmed me every afternoon.

Every year around this time, our school, Geochang High School, held a spring arts festival. The festival, which lasted for four days, was divided into two main activities: sports and literary arts. The sports events included games like volleyball and basketball, while the literary arts encompassed creative activities such as writing and art. Everyone was required to participate in at least one event, and we spent the rest of the time cheering on our classmates. The spring arts festival at Geochang High School was truly an event led by the students themselves.

On the last day of the festival, a marathon was held. It started from the school’s athletic field, wound through the town of Geochang, reached a turning point, and then the runners would head back to the school via the same route. Although shorter than an official marathon, its significance was no less. Just as marathons are often referred to as the flower of the Olympics, the marathon at Geochang High School was the highlight of the spring arts festival.

While all students were expected to participate in the marathon, anyone could opt out if they wished. Students who were injured during the sports events or felt unwell could take a rest without any objections from others.

I agonized for a long time over whether to participate in the marathon. At the time, it hadn’t been even half a year since I had returned to school after heart surgery. Although I wanted to run in the marathon, I wasn’t confident it would be safe for me. I couldn’t ignore the potential harm it could cause, not just to me but also to those who cared about me.

Yet, I didn’t want to give up. There’s a clear difference between “students who can run but choose not to” and “students who cannot run and therefore do not participate.” The former is a matter of choice, while the latter is a limitation. If I didn’t run, it would be due to the latter reason. It would mean acknowledging my limits without even trying, which I didn’t want to accept.

A few days before the festival, I went to the hospital for a regular check-up. I cautiously asked my doctor, Professor Yoon, if I could participate in the upcoming marathon at school. He responded with a firm and brief “absolutely not.” While I hadn’t expected a positive response, I was surprised by his categorical refusal.

However, hearing that I couldn’t participate only made me more determined. I thought, if I could complete the marathon despite the doctor’s warning, then no matter who says “you can’t” in the future, I wouldn’t be discouraged. After all, it’s my life that I have to live. No one else can live it for me. Even if the whole world tells me I can’t, it’s entirely up to me to accept or reject their words.

In the end, I found myself standing on the athletic field on the last day of the spring arts festival. Hundreds of students were warming up, following the instructions from the announcers stationed at the main stand. I deliberately positioned myself at the very back, hoping to avoid being noticed and told not to run. While everyone else faced forward, I inconspicuously stretched and warmed up at the back.

Shortly after, a gunshot pierced the air, and hundreds of us poured through the narrow school gate into the town. It was like sand grains passing through the narrow neck of an hourglass. Since the school was located on higher ground, the initial part of the run was downhill, making the start relatively easy. I thought to myself that this might not be so difficult after all.

As I continued to run, the paved road turned into an unpaved walking path. The crowd of runners, initially bunched together, had stretched out so much that the front and back of the pack were out of sight. I found myself somewhere in the middle. I jogged lightly and walked whenever I felt tired, alternating between the two. I didn’t expect to achieve a good time, but I also didn’t want to fall too far behind.

About 30 minutes into the run, I encountered my first crisis. I started feeling an oppressive tightness in my chest, a sensation I had experienced occasionally. I thought it would pass, but the symptoms worsened. I stopped, bent over, and rested my hands on my knees, looking down and gasping for breath. It didn’t get better. I squatted, dripping with cold sweat, overwhelmed by the fear of losing control over the situation. A teacher approached from the distance, advising me to breathe slowly. After about 10 minutes of trying to steady my breath, I began to feel better.

Dusting myself off, I rejoined the race, deciding not to push myself too hard. I walked briskly, slowing down whenever I felt strained. Other participants began to overtake me, but I didn’t mind. My goal was to finish the race. However, I noticed that some of those who had been ahead started to drop out. Internally, I repeated to myself, “I will finish, no matter how late it is.”

As I continued, I could see the leading group, which had already turned at the halfway point, coming towards me. This reassured me that the turning point wasn’t far off, though it turned out to be much further than I expected. Finally, after what felt like a significant distance, the turning point came into view. Runners who had already turned were cheering for those about to make the turn. When it was my turn, I also cheered for those behind me, realizing, “I can be someone who offers support. I can make that much of a difference.”

The return journey wasn’t as hard as the way there. I felt confident that I could finish if I just kept going. But then, the tightness in my chest returned. It became difficult even to maintain a fast walking pace. I crouched down again. A teacher rushed over, and soon, a vehicle arrived to pick me up. I thought to myself, “If this is what living feels like, maybe it’s better to die. Either die running or live properly after finishing the race.” Yet, that wasn’t my only feeling at the moment. I was actually very scared. I still wanted to live. There was so much I hadn’t done yet. I thought of my parents and my younger sibling. An internal struggle began.

“Do I give up here, or do I risk my life to finish?”

But I soon gathered my resolve.

“Let’s finish, even if it means walking.”

To those around me, I said, “I can’t run, but I can walk.” I promised to walk from then on. They let me go after hearing my repeated assurances. I returned to the now deserted asphalt road.

There was no one else on the road but me. However, teachers were steadfastly positioned along the roadside. After a long walk, when my sense of time had dulled, the uphill path leading back to the school appeared in the distance. To remember this moment as a completion, I had to climb this hill, about 200 meters (approximately 656 feet) long. I gathered all my remaining strength and ascended the hill. As I approached the entrance of the school, people came out to applaud. Although I was too exhausted to smile in response, I was grateful. Entering the school, I saw people resting in the athletic field. The first thought that came to my mind was, “Now, I’m no different from them.” The undeniable truth that I had proven to myself was incredibly moving. Leaving the applauding crowd behind, I slowly walked towards those who were no different from me and laid down in the middle of the athletic field, feeling an unprecedented peace.

The marathon completion that day made me realize one thing very clearly. This is the reality of my life. My life, which nobody else can live for me. Everyone has their own life to live. Being sick is not a reason for despair, nor is being healthy a reason for arrogance. When the world looks at you with doubtful eyes, all you need is one person who will stand by you till the end. That person is none other than yourself.

Later, I heard that I finished third from last. I didn’t know at the time, but there were two more behind me. That day’s completion will likely remain an unforgettable memory for them as well.