Call me Mercury
I was not born to run.
Walking has always been my thing: Give me some tunes, good shoes, and I can walk forever. Gorgeous backdrop preferred, not required.
When I decided to step up my game—registered for my first 5k—my body was not happy about it (re: pain in places God did not intend). And come time for said event, uninvited snow postponed, and, eventually, cancelled the race.
After spending hours preparing in my home gym, and even more time in mental readiness, I was Bummed (yep, capital B). So I ran my first 3.1 miles on my treadmill. Phooey on uncooperative weather.
My next goal: Running a 10k. And convincing myself day after day to lace up my shoes and put in the time—waiting for the Runner’s High to kick in; which I’m convinced is off frolicking somewhere with the Loch Ness Monster and the Easter Bunny.
About a week ago, I ran in the Leeds 10k.
Well, the parts I didn’t walk.
But I never stopped moving—and didn’t pass out, which is amazing considering the high temperatures not common in English summers.
For my troubles, I gained a cute little medal, a finisher’s shirt, and blisters the size of a baby’s fist. And a determination to eventually run an entire 10k, dammit.
I may not have been birthed with wings on my feet, but I’m hitting the road, again and again, one step at a time.
Watch out York—I’m eyeing you now. Your 10k course has never seen the likes of me.
If you are joining in, I’ll be the one in the back, shuffling, yet determined, towards the finish line.