I want to get real about running for a few minutes. While I love reading the blogs of super speedy runners, I’m not one. I don’t know if I ever will be one. I’m simply not a fast runner.
It doesn’t come easily to me. My natural stride is not something pretty to watch. Going out to “knock out a quick 10k” isn’t even something I can comprehend.
But I keep going. In two years, I’ve dropped almost three official minutes from my 5k time, and four minutes unofficially. I’ve run a half marathon. I’m planning to run a full marathon.
When I started running, I could barely run for a quarter mile at a time, at a 12:30/mile pace. I usually hold almost a minute faster than that for a long run pace these days.
I’m not the kind of runner who adores every single mile. I certainly have never trained like I probably should to see awesome results.
That’s okay. Maybe someday I’ll get more serious and more competitive with my training. Maybe not. Maybe all racing will ever amount to is a way to keep me running.]
What I do know is that when I get out there, whether it’s a training run or a race, something about me changes that day. I feel accomplished. I feel like I’ve done something worthwhile, and I feel like I’ve done something for just me.
Yes, I like getting PRs and yes, I like beating the person next to me, but at the end of the day, I run because I can. Summer of 2011, I dreamed of simply finishing a 5k. That seemed insurmountable. Once I did a 5k, I set my sights on a half marathon, a goal that materialized in 2009. That seemed insurmountable. These days, a marathon doesn’t seem that way. I truly believe I can do it.
While I’m never going to lead the pack, I am lapping the old me.
One painful, deathly, slowpoke step at a time.