Running is Mental

Yesterday I related my cautionary "don't try this at home kids" tale of treadmill-falling woe to a coworker who does triathlons. (Or is that a "triathlete who is my coworker"?) I needed to try get some sympathy from somewhere, given that all I get is laughter from The Husband whenever he so much as thinks about it.

As I demurred showing Friend Triathlete my scrapes and only motioned vaguely in their direction (since pointing out their true locations would have a) taken awhile and b) made me blush) while nonetheless assuring him that there is a perfect waffle-weave indentation on my left knee from the treadmill belt, another coworker gave me a strange look and said, "oh, do you do lots of running, too?"

I shrugged and said, "oh, I don't know about lots, but I do some." To which the triathlete responded with disbelief, "you run 10 miles every weekend. I'd call that lots."

My curious coworker gave a dismissive little laugh and said, "oh, wow, that's, um, lots. Good for you...

...I could NEVER do that."

I know that laugh. I have laughed that laugh many times. I, too, have told people who run that they are crazy, that I tried it once and hated every step, that you could never get me to run, that I'm allergic to gym.

Yet here we are.

Lots of people ask me how I got started. I can never tell if they're looking for inspiration or a heads-up on the kind of thinking to avoid in order to dodge the same bullet that got me.

I tell them that my husband started running (which, truth be told, didn't do a whole lot to get me going - he'll be the first to agree that him telling me I should do something or that I would like something is a guarantee that the suggestion goes to the top of my 100 Things to Never Do, Whether Before or After I Die list). And then I saw yet another coworker training for a marathon (for a software company, we're pretty fit). And then I kept bumping into other runners, so it seemed like all the cool kids were doing it.

Then I mention the fit of insanity that gripped me, upon recovering from which I realized I had signed up for a half marathon. And how the fear of that race got me out there, running first 2 miles, then 3, then 4, then more.

But I think what matters more is not how I started running, but why I keep doing it. At first, I did it because it felt so good to stop. Then, I did it because of the sense of accomplishment.

Now I do it because that two hours every Saturday morning (yeah, I'm sloooooow) is my most precious time every week. I lace up my shoes, slap in my headphones, and don't come home until all the grossness and the anxiety of the week has been wrung from my system.

When I walk in the door after those 10 miles, it's like I'm totally empty. Clear. Clean. Like someone hit the reset button.

I know that this entire post is pretty much eating humble pie. I mocked runners for so long; it's a fairly large piece.

But this post is also a reminder to never say never. Since the Grande 1/2 Marathon Experiment, I have realized that so much of what I can't do is simply a don't do. That's kind of scary - makes me wonder what else I could accomplish if I were driven/scared enough.

But it's also pretty liberating to think that so much of it is in my head.