When I drive home from work in the evenings, there are always people on the trails and sidewalks in my neighborhood running and jogging. Older people, younger people, pairs and singles and groups, people with dogs, people with strollers. We are a very active suburban neighborhood is what I’m saying.
I like seeing the runners and joggers. Some of them are graceful and gazelleish in their running shorts; they are beautiful to watch, and I am always jealous of how easily they run. But others of them are like me: middle aged, a little pudgy, a little jiggly, not fast, but stubborn. Stubborn, and out there running.
I started running for reals in July, because in June my friend asked me if I wanted to run a half marathon with her in January. Before, I had done a few 5K runs that involved more walking than running, things I didn’t train for and attacked without any strategy or training. But a half marathon is Serious Stuff, so I signed up with a training group and told everyone I was doing it and then I registered because if I already paid for it, I’m more likely to do it. And then I started running.
And oh my lord it sucked at first. It hurt and I couldn’t breathe and I thought my head might explode. But it was exactly what I needed when I started up at the end of July, because I was not fit for group exercise since I was still angry and sorrowful and by and large just had no patience for people. But running was something I could do all by myself. It’s me versus me.
