Now, it’s harder not to run. Nearly every day for 24-ish years. Shoes on, I go.
All these years I didn’t really think of myself as a runner. Real runners are fast. I’m slow. I’m out there for a half dozen reasons- only one of which is exercise.
Maybe if I ran without podcasts? Maybe if I focused on the sound of my breath in time with my footfalls? Maybe if I added track workouts? Maybe if I monitored my pace with something more than mild curiosity? Would that make me a “real” runner. Maybe.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. I’m in a new running phase. At nearly 46 years, I can confidently claim runs as “my” time and notice when I’m chasing someone else’s definition of good enough.
With all that swirl, I love the discipline that comes with setting a distance goal. Right now, that’s the 50K. 10 weeks into training, 10 weeks to go.
I love the spreadsheet my husband (and coach) put together.
I love talking with him about it.
I love setting out my clothes with more intention and anticipation before long runs.
I love the 2-finger waves from familiar faces on the trail.
I love the red fox scooting across my path and the hawk watching from above.
I love starting. And I love being done. I’m growing to love all the emotions in between.
I love not quitting- even when I’m really tired.
I love feeling like a runner.