on going the distance...
This morning? I ran 4 miles. I hardly recognize myself anymore. (Partly because I never thought myself capable of such athleticism; partly because, well, have you seen me after running four miles? It ain't pretty.)
I've grown pretty comfortable with running 3 miles in about 30-35 minutes, but today I decided that I wanted to do 4 miles. Not try, because if I only decided to try then we all know I'd wimp out after 30 minutes when my iPod playlist started over. So, no. I did not try, I freaking did it.
I was unstoppable! Even when my legs threatened to buckle beneath me! Even with my cheap Payless running shoes started getting slightly uncomfortable! Even when I had that flash of, "Damn, did I put on any deodorant this morning?" Even when Cleany McLurkerson decided to clean my treadmill, his head dangerously close to my nether-regions! Even when my face started to turn a patchy shade of pink! Even when I was at 3.75 miles and pretty much stared at the numbers the rest of the time, realizing that a watched treadmill screen will never, for the love of all things holy, get to 4 miles soon enough!
It feels good. I can do this. And I truly can't stress enough that if I can do this, absolutely anybody can. It's been a while that I've been working towards this particular goal, but seriously. I am the anti-sport. Have always been. And the anti-sport just ran 4 miles. I swear, if that fact doesn't give a shining beam of hope towards anyone who wants to be a runner, then I don't know what will.
(PS: I also feel good because I've finally worked off the godforsaken slice of cake I ate at work yesterday that was pretty much the size of my face. Don't bring cake around me. It's a dangerous thing.)











26 wrote me a note:
Thoughts? Questions? White cheddar popcorn? Do share.