Now I’ve gone and done it.
I’ve signed myself up for a race and stuff. Yeah, yeah, I know… Everybody does it. Set a goal, run for it, etcetcetc. Wooptidoo.
But for me, this is a Big. Deal. I haven’t been in a race since 2006, when some co-workers convinced me it was a Good Idea™ to strap on rollerblades and skate a half-marathon with only a month or so of prep time.
I vowed never to rollerblade again, and I haven’t. It wasn’t that I hated doing the race, or spending time with really fun and enjoyable co-workers (miss you guys sometimes, you-know-who-you-are’s). It was an achievement and I was very proud!
I just don’t enjoy rollerblading. Not one bit.
Harkening back to that whole Scary Stuff thing, I
lost my sanity took courage this week and signed up for the Army Run here in Ottawa in September. I am entered in the 5km race. Five whole kilometres of running. At once. With other people.
Oh yeah… Mama’s gonna run 5k, and then die. (Not really, only die a little. I’m hoping my hubby brings the kids in a wagon so I won’t have to use my legs to get back to the car.) I know I can walk some of it if I have to, and I have until September to train. I also know that finishing the race is the important thing, not my time. (Yeah right, my competitive self just stage-whispered “RUN, DAMN YOU!!)
The last time I ran in a race, I was 17 years old, and I won it.
In high school, believe it or not, I was a sprinter (I did cross-country too, but my best events were Track & Field). All five foot nothing of me competed in the 100, 200, and 4×100 metre races every year. And yo, I was fast! I loved the feel of the speed as I would lean around the corner in a 200 metre race, attempting a sub 30 second time. I felt this incredible rush of adrenalin staring down the track from the starting blocks. I can still remember what it felt like to burst over the finish line, knowing it was my (non-existent) boobs that broke the tape. It was a big part of who I was in school, being a runner.
I was proud of my speed.
I was an introverted, socially shunted girl for most of high school, but when I ran, I wasn’t an outcast. I wasn’t ugly, or short, or stupid. For that little bit of time, I was amazing and could do anything. The rumours and the secrets and the failed attempts at fitting-in went away. I was awesome.
My horses used to give me the same feeling too, but I digress…
I had forgotten about that part of me until I started running again this past month. Perhaps that is why I am pushing myself through the nerves, achy muscles, red-faces and jiggly public displays imitating a fire bellows.
To remember that feeling. To get back that woman who likes herself and doesn’t feel like a big, fat failure.
So wish me luck. I’m kind of excited, a bit scared, and a lot worried I won’t be ready. I have a goal, and only 150 days to get there.