I’m not going to lie. There is something exciting about every Sunday being the “farthest I’ve ever run” day. And while there’s no way I’m going to really be ready for my first half marathon next month, I’m excited about it. Every long run gives me just a little more confidence. The slowest person in my age group last year finished in 4:17:08. I don’t think I’ll be that slow, but you never know. I’m just looking to finish this one. There always has to be a first one.
This past Sunday I ran 7 miles. It’s getting easier to push myself and I love it. Several times on that run I just started smiling. Why? Because I was running. I have fallen in love with running. My ankle is finally getting stronger and bothering me less and less. I don’t feel like I’m going to die after 3 miles. I’m happy when I’m running. Well, except for when there are spider webs floating through the air. That’s damn annoying. Ugh.
I saw a family sitting on their front porch carving pumpkins Sunday. The two little kids were so excited watching (presumably) their dad scooping out pumpkin goo. I passed a house with a giant inflatable Dallas Cowboy and a huge Dallas Cowboys flag and laughed out loud thinking about how in a few hours, I’d be parked on my couch, yelling at fucking Romo (I seriously want one of those customized jerseys and I want it to say “FKN Romo!”). I lost count of the cigarette butts I saw on the ground that day, but remember the happy feeling with every one I saw, “I’m so glad I quit.”
Running has become a very important part of me. I think it’s always been in there; a little girl dying to run, run, run, as fast and as far as she can. I’ve finally acknowledged her and am letting her do it.