“I’m not a runner.” I think I have said that exact sentence 4,000,000,000 times in my life. But, guys, I’ve been running. And more than that, I’ve been liking it. And thinking scary things like running races and training for half and full marathons types of running. I have planned blog posts committed to why running SUCKS and I just walk instead. (which, I will still post just the way they are, because for those who hate running, they need to hear its ok to hate. Because it is.)
“How did you do it Sam? How did you become a ‘runner’?”
Truth bomb: It snuck up on me.
It happened like a sneaky little thing, creeped up, and pounced. And suddenly, I was a runner. Want more than that? Good, because I want to type more than that. And I HATE when people say “I just did it!” in terms of how they succeeded at something.
As I’ve lost my weight, and because its been summer (and a GLORIOUS Seattle one at that!) I’ve been wanting to get outside more, get the kiddo outside, not cooped up, and play. Since we live in a condo and the only outside area is for kids older than 2, walks have been our go-to. Homegirl loves to wave and point and make noises and feel the wind on her face, plus, stop and look at the community vegetable garden a neighbor has made. We’re big fans. The neighborhood is great because its well protected from major traffic, has sidewalks, and lends itself to walks naturally because you can do a loop or go out and back, and feel successful.
I’d been doing a lot of walks up to a stop sign, .9 miles away from our house, mostly to get added steps in my day. I kept doing longer and longer walks to get more steps and because it felt good. I explored more of our neighborhood, found the park our nanny takes our kiddo with our nanny share kiddo, and found more routes to wander.
One day, as I was going a long loop, in jean shorts and converse slip-ons, (this is important) I had a feeling. That feeling was my body saying, “I want to jog. Let’s jog.” Knowing I wasn’t drunk nor delusional from the heat, I kept walking and ignored that feeling. Then it kept going, “no joke, lets jog. Come on, see how far you can go. Dude, just GO!”
So I ran.
I ran the length of the neighborhood without stopping, and as I ran I felt powerful, strong, engaged, and kept talking to my mini-monster motivational things that might embarrass me to type but are true:
“Mama was made for this. Mama was made to run, to show you how to be strong and take care of yourself.”
“God has given us bodies and wants us to use them, not to waste them.”
“I can do this, I can do this for you. I am DOING this for you.”
The whole time I was acutely aware of my outfit choice for this walk – those driving by must have thought I was crazy to go out for a run in denim and unsupportive shoes, they didn’t know the barrier I was breaking, nor that I didn’t care if I ended up with chafed legs and sore ankles (I didn’t). They didn’t know that I was, in a short distance, overcoming an obstacle I didn’t know I had put in front of myself.
I made it the length of the neighborhood, and immediately pulled out my phone to check my distance. It was .4 miles. I was PROUD of myself. Disappointed, because it felt like 7 miles, but proud. I walked back to the condo and announced to my husband what I’d done. His eyebrows raised, as he is a natural athlete and a former track runner in high school, but he was proud. I then went to my over-enthusiastic family and got a response equal to my own excitement.
I went out on a walk the next day and the same thing happened – again, I was pushed to run by my body and I was wearing inappropriate clothes for the action (at least this time I was in real sneakers). I went a little further, I felt a little better. And then decided that I couldn’t just leave it up to running as the spirit led me. I had to do this for real, in real running clothes.
Stay Tuned for THAT adventure!