I am a runner.
The ability to write that statement is amazing to me.
I've lived my life in fits and starts. I've jumped into things with both feet only to pull out before my feet hit the water. Sometimes, I would wade around in the shallow end for a while before deciding the water was too cold, too hot, too watery, too wet. I would get out never to return again.
I've started things for the wrong reason. Everyone else was doing it. I thought it would make me popular, prettier, thinner, happier, something. I was lured by the shiny, not knowing that real work lay beneath the pretty exterior. The work, the effort, the monotony, the tedium always turned me off.
Start then stop. Join then quit. Activities, jobs, diets, crafts, novels, plans, life.
My motivation was always wrong. That dangerous space between my ears allowed doubt and fear creep in. I don't want to. I won't. I can't.
Earlier this year I started again. It was a nice day, warm and sunny when I had forgotten what warm and sunny looked like. It was an exercise day but instead of hitting the elliptical at the gym, my body itched for something different. So I laced up my shoes, turned on some tunes and ran.
I've run before. Couch to 5K, an ill-fated attempt to train for a triathlon (really?!?) were started and stopped. I've run races, at least one per year for the past few years. One and that was it.
But this time was different. I felt the difference from the first run. I felt good, happy, euphoric. I felt the rush of endorphins I had heard so much about. I felt strong. So I did it again and again. I felt happier, stronger.
On an endorphin high I decided to sign up for a race on Mother's Day. I did not immediately regret the decision as I might have in the past. Instead I trained.
The race was yesterday. I woke up happy. I had a spring in my step.
As I stood at the starting line and looked around at the 400 plus women, I fought this overwhelming urge to cry. But it was not a desire born out of fear, nerves or panic. I was ready to breakdown and cry huge, ugly tears of joy. I knew I was meant to do this.
I was happy. I ran and it made me happy. I had done this because I wanted to. It was for me and me alone.
I might have walked more than I wanted too. I might have been passed by women in their 70s and girls in their teens. But I ran and I finished.
I am a runner.
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The ability to write that statement is amazing to me.
I've lived my life in fits and starts. I've jumped into things with both feet only to pull out before my feet hit the water. Sometimes, I would wade around in the shallow end for a while before deciding the water was too cold, too hot, too watery, too wet. I would get out never to return again.
I've started things for the wrong reason. Everyone else was doing it. I thought it would make me popular, prettier, thinner, happier, something. I was lured by the shiny, not knowing that real work lay beneath the pretty exterior. The work, the effort, the monotony, the tedium always turned me off.
Start then stop. Join then quit. Activities, jobs, diets, crafts, novels, plans, life.
My motivation was always wrong. That dangerous space between my ears allowed doubt and fear creep in. I don't want to. I won't. I can't.
Earlier this year I started again. It was a nice day, warm and sunny when I had forgotten what warm and sunny looked like. It was an exercise day but instead of hitting the elliptical at the gym, my body itched for something different. So I laced up my shoes, turned on some tunes and ran.
I've run before. Couch to 5K, an ill-fated attempt to train for a triathlon (really?!?) were started and stopped. I've run races, at least one per year for the past few years. One and that was it.
But this time was different. I felt the difference from the first run. I felt good, happy, euphoric. I felt the rush of endorphins I had heard so much about. I felt strong. So I did it again and again. I felt happier, stronger.
On an endorphin high I decided to sign up for a race on Mother's Day. I did not immediately regret the decision as I might have in the past. Instead I trained.
The race was yesterday. I woke up happy. I had a spring in my step.
As I stood at the starting line and looked around at the 400 plus women, I fought this overwhelming urge to cry. But it was not a desire born out of fear, nerves or panic. I was ready to breakdown and cry huge, ugly tears of joy. I knew I was meant to do this.
I was happy. I ran and it made me happy. I had done this because I wanted to. It was for me and me alone.
I might have walked more than I wanted too. I might have been passed by women in their 70s and girls in their teens. But I ran and I finished.
I am a runner.
.JPG)
