I have a calendar at home that reminds me of the miles I’ve run and the ones still to come. How many miles today, tomorrow, the day after and so on. The plan is clearly written out. The plan isn’t set in stone, there is flexibility, but the road map is clear.
I look at the miles ahead and take a deep breath and think, “Shit. Oh yeah, I got this!”
I’m hoping that at some point the initial doubt fades away and all I’m left with is, “I got this!”
I’m hoping that first half mile gets easier, let alone the rest. I have to push through that initial — wait, what da hell moment and get my labored breathing into a nice rhythm that syncs with my legs…and then, then I can just run. If I’m lucky I focus on the music, road, people, park, anything. If I feel the least bit of stress, I worry about my pace and the time, my pace and the time, it becomes a terrible feedback loop.
Why do I insist on doing this? Running is hard. I’m overweight and slow and still I want to run. It’s a deep desire that I don’t understand, all I know is that I have to honor it.
I insist at my age (never you mind what the number is) at becoming athletic. I insist that I run, not like the young women out there who look like gazelles, but like a woman, sure of her steps, regardless of the road ahead.
I run to chase that woman, that image of me – confident that even if I came in dead last, I did not quit, and each hard won step brought me closer to grace.
I keep my eye out for her – for that me, just brimming, bursting with life, joy, pain, laughter and love. Sometimes she’s just a breath away, I can feel her right next me, sometimes I can barely make her out in the distance, but I’ve yet to lose sight of her.
I keep my eye on her – me.
Total miles this week: 10
Longest run: 3.1
Best moment: Feeling sweaty as the treadmill came to a stop.
Best song: Micheal Jackson’s Love Never Felt So Good on repeat for the last half mile of my speed workout. It saved me!
Up Next: Half-Marathon officially starts next week! Whoa!