I’ve had this on-again/off-again relationship that started in my teens and has followed me into my
late mid-forties. We’ve hit a rough patch these last few years, and I think it’s time we parted ways.
Running and I don’t get along anymore.
I want to like it, I really do. Being a runner these days is uber cool.
The clothes are even cute.
In college, running was the fastest, cheapest, and easiest way to get rid of the freshman fifteen. In my case, I think it was only the freshman five, but I still didn’t want it. Luckily my small college town is very hilly with lots of great areas to run right outside the dorms.
I just strapped my Reeboks on and took off. Almost every day there for a while.
But as soon as those five pounds were gone? I stopped.
Why I wasted all of those years when I could have been a runner I will never remember.
Because it is getting harder to remember things.
You see, I have a runner’s body. My legs are long and there’s not much on me that bounces around. So it seems logical that this would be my sport.
I mean, if I were athletic enough to have my own sport.
But it’s not like I’m even a fast runner, which seems incredibly unfair given the length of my legs. It literally feels like I’m dragging around concrete pilings. With re bar inside.
I rock the 10-minute mile.
About 10 years ago a friend invited me to run my first 10K, the Wharf to Wharf race in Santa Cruz, CA. I actually trained, ran almost every evening around our neighborhood, and was feeling pretty good about it. Race day was awesome; there were bands playing along the route, crowds cheering, and the ocean at our side the whole way.
But I didn’t enter another 10K after that. Again, I can’t remember why.
About 6 years ago, my family started running an annual race together, Pat’s Run, that benefits the Pat Tillman Foundation. It always feels awesome to be in the crowd, the energy is high, and we enjoy doing it as a family for a cause that’s important to us.
Well, until that Pat’s Run in Arizona one year when my
10 minute mile insane slowness almost kept me from keeping up with my then 8 year-old daughter as she ducked in and out of the crowd on race day.
Ouch. Pretty sad running there, mom.
Along the way I’ve had several stints in physical therapy for chronic tendinitis and bursitis in my hips. Not only do I hate physical therapy, but I’m too cheap to go through all of that again.
So while I will continue to run short spurts during my hill program on the treadmill, I’ve finally decided that it’s OK to say I will never run another race again.
I am not a runner. There, I said it.
So I signed up to walk a half-marathon with friends. And part of me is wistful, knowing that at one point my body could have run that race. Slowly, yes, but actual running.
But maybe I can still get the cute clothes.