Not Born to Run
I did something foolish. Again.
I signed up for another half-marathon. Grandmother’s.
To be clear, I did this back in the fall.
A different time. A different me. A more hopeful me. A version of myself that had not yet run a full marathon and didn’t know the kind of psychological damage distance running can cause. I was young, innocent. Naive. My joints still believed in recovery. My optimism was fully intact.
Now? I’m wise in my old age. And by old age, I mean the time since that full marathon where I’ve done nothing but rot. Well, nothing in terms of running.
I should not have signed up for this. Let’s get that out of the way.
But also…it’s going to be an absolute blast. Don’t get me wrong. The race itself? Ehhhhh. But the weekend, will be LIT!
It’s the prep that’s the problem.
It’s the months leading up to the event, when you’re supposed to be “training” and “conditioning” and not stuffing your face with kettle chips while playing Fortnite. That’s where things start to unravel. They just announced a new Sabrina Carpenter skin so Fortnite wins out again.
Because I… have not run in four months.
Yes. Four. Full. Months.
And the race? It’s in two. That math doesn’t math. I am officially in trouble.
For the past several months, I’ve been stewing.
Simmering.
Braising slowly in the juices of Mountain Dew. Living my best couch potato life.
I did do a big hike that required training. And by “training” I mean forcing myself onto a Stairmaster for 30-minute bursts of cardio misery that simulated roughly 2,000 feet of elevation gain.
Yes. 2,000 feet. In 30 minutes. I was cooking. Literally dripping like I had fallen in a koi pond. Every time I stepped on that stupid machine, I became a different person. A worse person. The faster I climbed, the faster I could get off. That was my entire strategy. It wasn't about fitness. It was about getting it over with.
Anyway. I digress.
Now the calendar has flipped, and it is officially TIME.
Time to run.
Here’s the thing, though:
I was not born to run. I was born to do many things: overthink, snack, get irrationally angry during the Final Four…but not run. Definitely not run.
But I had simply run out of excuses.
The weather betrayed me. The rain cleared. The clouds left town. The vibe was undeniable. The universe was telling me to get up.
Frick. I had to run now.
Thursday? Skipped.
Friday? Skipped.
Saturday? My reckoning.
And you know what? I did it.
I ran.
Okay, fine, I survived a run. Let’s not get carried away.
And somewhere in those 6 miles, I discovered the single most frustrating part of running:
Those smug, high-horse runners who float around talking about how great they feel after a jog.
You know the type. The “I just did 8 miles and now I’m gonna casually crush a kale smoothie and smile at strangers” crowd. The ones with that knowing little smirk that says, “The runners high is real”
And here’s the worst part:
They are right.
Running does something. It works. It shouldn’t, but it does. Somewhere between gasping for air and contemplating faking shine splints, I feel great! Like, mood lifted, serotonin reactivated, “maybe I am better than everyone else” kind of good.
Sure, the sun and unseasonably perfect weather helped. But the running? That nonsense actually helped.
And now, I’m scared.
Because what if I become one of them?