Run

5:30 AM and time to run.  Brush teeth, spandex and sneakers, grab the iPod, out the door.  Then I wake up.  Despite the obvious upside of staying in bed until a decent hour, I'm drawn to the early morning peacefulness that somehow motivates me to complete the morning's goal- a good, sweaty run.  It was not always this way.  For the majority of my life, the idea of being a runner was beyond ridiculous. To be clear, I am not athletic.  Not flexible, not terribly strong, not the sporty type though I do love to be outside.  I used to take long walks around my neighborhood in the name of getting exercise, but it was a minimal effort.  But it was a year after my daughter was born and my pants still didn't fit.  I had always worked out and was doing so at the time, but to no real tangible outcome.  I went through every day hating myself, my body, my inability to make changes for the better.  One day, absorbed in anger and frustration with myself, I started to run.  It was pathetic.  Legs burning, heart about to burst, lungs on the edge of collapse.  Needless to say, I didn't get very far.  But. But, but, but.  I did it again the next day.  And the next.  Eventually, I was running, sort of.  I would go for maybe a mile or so, then walk for awhile, run another half mile, etc.  Not too bad for a staunchly un-athletic lady.  I had lost weight, felt better in general, and though I still had to push myself at every step, had to overcome the urge to stop or slow down, had to decide on a daily basis that doing what was hard to do was better than being miserable, I was proud of myself. 

I felt victorious, even though a small part of me knew that saying I was a runner was only partly true since I was only running for parts of those workouts, punctuated with lengthy sections of walking.  Then, not that long ago, I went on vacation.  Nice hotel, too many good meals and glasses of wine, an amazing view.  I didn't know the area and so, feeling the drive to get a workout in, I hit the hotel gym.  It was state-of-the-art, with treadmills lined up against a huge picture window overlooking the lake, boats on the water, rising sun, the whole deal.  It must be said, I hate treadmills.  Hate 'em.  For me, running on a treadmill is absolute torture compared to the relative peace of running outside and I can feel every step like a weight dragging me down, making me want to quit, so I avoid them at all costs.  But that day my choices were limited.  These particular treadmills had built-in TV's and fans and more buttons than a spaceship.  One button said 5K.  Huh, I thought.  5K is like, what, three miles or so? (yeah, I wasn't totally sure).  What the heck, I will just slow it down when I need to.  I started to run.  I looked at the lake.  I thought about life.  I thought about breakfast.  I thought about the sweat dripping down my back.  I thought about the slightly awkward girl reflected in the window wearing my workout clothes.  She almost looks like a runner, I thought.  The treadmill beeped at me.  5K COMPLETED, it said.  Huh. I hadn’t needed to slow down at all.  Crap, I thought.  This must be a metaphor for life.  And I had always hated the treadmill.  

 Running three miles without stopping might seem like a small victory. But it was one of those things you convince yourself you are not capable of doing until you actually get it done.  Getting a pedicure recently, the girl asked me if I was a runner (not a good sign about the condition of my feet, sadly) and I said yes without hesitation, so that is the real victory, I guess. I do consider myself a runner.  I like the label and take pride in it, as if declaring it to other people makes it more true, makes me better.  This is, of course, very much like declaring oneself a writer.  I say I'm a writer, therefore I am. (Feel free to argue!) I say I'm a runner, so it must be true.  I don’t usually like labels.  I've been called stubborn, pessimistic, shy and maybe they do fit, some of the time.  But runner...writer...yeah, I'm good with those.