When I was a little girl, I was not a runner. I preferred riding my purple bike with a big white banana seat and handle bar streamers to just about anything. No matter how many times I fell off that bike, I got right back on and kept pedaling. I loved to feel the wind in my hair, and the freedom of the road. Okay, the freedom of the sidewalk.
When I was in high school, I was not a runner. I opted for drill team, so I wouldn’t have to run. Turns out I kinda sucked at drill team, so I ended up in P.E. for that one dreaded semester, and when it was time to hit the track, I was the rebel who walked the entire time. I was far too cool to run and sweat and, well, you know. Then came college, where I took every P.E. class not related to running. I took bowling. Even archery. Don’t piss me off, k?
After high school, I started dating a guy who ran. He was hot and drove a ’63 Camaro, and I wanted to hang on to him, so I rushed out and bought some running shoes, a sports bra, a cute pair of shorts, and started running. I ran hard and long, trying to keep up with him so he’d like me more. Instead, I ended up with shin splits, and subsequent Friday nights spent alone.
Flash forward to now. I am not the same girl. I’m not running to impress a boy with a ’63 Camaro. I’m running solely for me. I’m running because I want the sense of accomplishment in doing something that I never though I could do, never thought I would want to do.
When I laced up my brand new running shoes in October of last year, I had a goal of running a 5K with the Sisterhood, because that’s what we were doing. (Peer pressure may or may not have been involved. cough*Kirsten*coughcough) I figured I’d train for a few weeks, run the 5K and then move on to the next challenge. I mean let’s face it, I didn’t really even like running. The first few weeks of training SUCKED. I wasn’t good at it, it didn’t feel good, and I was certain that it wouldn’t get any better. But I kept going, with hope that it would start to feel good and get easier. At some point, something clicked, and all of a sudden I wanted to be a runner. I wanted to run. (OMG, am I killing you with all this emphasis?)
Now? I am a runner. I feel like I’m totally consumed with and by running. It’s kinda like a hot guy with a ’63 Camaro, only better. It’s my love affair, and my husband is totally okay with it, as long as it doesn’t involve me making him drive ’63 Camaro.
Do you think you could run a 5K? A half marathon? A marathon? I think you can. Why? Because until October 9th, 2009, I was not a runner. And now, I am.
So tell me, what you want to be?
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