Around this time last year, I was slogging through a self-imposed 5K about three weeks after performing the ultimate power move of birth-giving. Last night, I set out to run 13.1 miles to make sure I could, at least, run a half marathon. The theory is: if you can run ¾ of the distance in training, you can go ahead and trust the adrenaline, aid stations, and promise of a banana at the finish line will get you through the remaining fraction on race day.
I ran 16.3 miles.
That’s just 3.3 miles short of what would be 75% of 26.2 miles.
I’m no longer short on confidence that I’ll be able to do this.
I’d like to litter this entry a plethora of adages and epiphanies that I surely must have experienced during the 3+ hours I was out frolicking around, but most of what I can recall during this jaunt are vivid imaginings of Baby giving her heroic father hell as he takes over nightly duties so her mom can go for a jog.
I did my best to reflect on how far I’ve come—how this same body, propelling me from one part of The Pointes that thrives on Kroger savings to the other part that casually pays way more than $9.99 for a bottle of wine, was squinting through that barely manageable 5K (in diapers, I might add) one year ago.
For whatever reason, whether it’s the satisfying, yet distracting, ache in my legs from the hard work they did the night before or that my window of time to finish this blog and get it to Don is quickly closing as Baby thrashes awake from her slumber, I don’t have a lot to tell you. Just that: I’m amazed at what our bodies can do.
ความคิดเห็น