Do you remember a few weeks back, when I was all braggy about running in Florida in February/March? Sunny mornings around a lake with a light breeze off the water have turned, cruelly, into humid stretches of time where I am humbly reminded of my own limitations. You guys, I see these gazelle-like creatures, men and women alike, who prance on my running route with compression socks, a soft glow of perspiration at their brow. It's beautiful. It's also a harsh reminder that I am not them. I am currently running in the thinnest, smallest items of clothing I can without offending anyone (shirt stays on, people). I dare not step outside without some awful visor or wide-brimmed hat. When I hop in the shower after a run, my face is a deep crimson that causes my husband to voice his concern for my general well-being. Have I mentioned this is what happens after my easy runs, with a few walk breaks thrown in? Yeah. It's humbling. Now, I'm not complaining. It's beautiful
In December, I signed up for a trail-ish 50k in the Seattle area called the Pigtails Flat Ass . When race day rolled around in less than desirable weather conditions, I had an upset stomach, my heart wasn't into it and there was a mistake at signup that said I was supposed to run the 26.2 instead of the 50k. I was given the chance to correct the mistake and run the ultra distance, but I happily declined. That's not a good sign. When you are standing in the cold at 8 in the morning, you should want to be there. When you have paid money to wake up early and run through slushy trails, you should be happy about it. Post-race - the resigned smile. "Can we go home, please?" Running is a cruel mistress. Some days it feels phenomenal, and other times it sucks. That's how it goes, and I accept that. But in December, something switched in me. I realized that I was HATING 95% of my runs. I was - and still am, occasionally- treating the act of running as some kin