WARNING! This post contains no pictures! I can’t take photos and run my tuchus off at the same time.
I’m just going to lay it all out there. I’ve never been an athlete. I grew up in a family of four girls, all of which were wildly more athletic than I ever was. Cori loves fishing, kayaking, skiing, snowboarding, etc. Chris has ran two marathons and is contemplating her third. And Candice, well, Candice was a star on the field hockey field, has ran a half marathon herself, learned to ski in a matter of hours, rides horses, etc. Then there is me!
Art kid to the core.
Seriously, I won’t deny that I can photograph, draw, paint, heck, fold origami circles around my three sisters. But, put us in a head to head American Gladiator type competition and I will most certainly be the first to bow out gracefully, or more likely, clumsily and ungracefully.
So, the decision to run this marathon was a big one for me! I knew I’d be starting from scratch with my lack of athleticism and ability. But if I am nothing else in life, I. Am. Determined. If I set my sites on something, say a goal, I stop at nothing to accomplish it.
And with that, I jumped on the treadmill Kyle and I purchased shortly after Christmas. And I started to run. Because my good friend Gretchen asked me to run and train for a half marathon with her in June. I thought to myself “Heck, why not?! You can do it!” And the day I ran a mile without stopping, I jumped off the treadmill and ran around the house like Rocky. Hands over my head, fists pumping. And then I realized rather quickly that I would have to do that 12 more times in order to finish the half marathon. Ummmmmmmmm, what?! Really, what did I get myself into? What did I sign up for? I think I should just keel over now.
But I got back on the treadmill again. And again. I’ve pushed myself to the points of nausea, pain, suffocation, boredom and more, quite a few times, over the last few weeks. But something started to happen in between all my bitching and complaining. I started to run for longer and longer clips. One mile turned into two, which turned into five.
And this past Sunday, Candice and I headed out together for a “long run.” She was going to run ten miles. Me? EIGHT! Yes, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8!!! I was really, really nervous. I honestly didn’t think I would be able to do it. I thought I’d get about half way through and be stranded on the trail that we were running on. That I would have to walk back to civilization from the depths of the Bethpage State Park. I packed two Nutri-Grain bars in the back pocket of my windbreaker because I was convinced I’d need HOURS to get back home, and heck, I needed sustenance! But I started out on this long ass run. And after I was quickly passed by my sister, I just hunkered down and ran. One foot in front of the other. My music on extra loud, pushing me through those random pains that popped up here and there, I actually kind of enjoyed myself.
I now understand why runners call the treadmill the “dreadmill.” Running outside, in nice weather is far superior than staring at a fixed point, or at a television, or if you work out at a gym, at the sweaty gross dude in front of you.
So, the run was great. And I did it! I ran 8 miles! The longest I have ever run in my life, and I lived to tell the tale! At least until I run my next long run and we add that 9th mile to the mix. Ooof, let’s just wish me luck. And hope I stop hyperextending!
