I am a runner.
It still feels a little funny saying those words. Like I am a fraud or wannabe or something.
I was never into running. Over the years I would try, and I would give up. I would try again, and give up again. I didn’t like how it felt, and I never stuck with it long enough to hit the runner’s high. I never stuck with it long enough to enjoy it. I never stuck with it.
Almost two years ago, a friend of mine let me know she had signed up for a half-marathon, in Ottawa. It was a year of change for me. My marriage had fallen apart, I had lost weight, I was in therapy, I started working with a trainer, I became stronger than I ever thought possible. So “why not?” I thought to myself. Why not? What the hell was I thinking?
I fell in love.
I bought a new pair of shoes. I’ll admit it, the best part of working out and a new fitness regime is buying all the gear that goes with it! I laced up and I started to run. Slow at first and as the days and weeks passed, I got a little faster and ran a little further. I hit the runners high a number of times, as I set new personal bests almost on every run. Through two injuries, I trained and trained, and I completed my first half, and immediately signed up for another one. And then another. And now another.
Running takes me to a place I never imagined. I find it meditative. With every step, one after the other, I work through things, both physically and mentally. It burns off the crazy, works through the stress and surprisingly, gets the creative juices flowing. Sometimes so much so, that I have to stop mid-run and write.
I’ve learned over the last 2 years, that anyone who gets up off the couch and moves their legs in a pace that is slightly faster than walking, is a runner.
I am a runner.