I used to be a runner. Running was how I cleared my head, relieved stress, released anger, and often times what kept me spiritually centered. It kept my "zen." I would go on runs 5 days a week "back in the day." It started as a struggle (even though I was considerably lighter than I am now); I'd never been into distance running. But I was broker than broke and it was a free method to exercise in my new town that had a delightful downtown with a river front. I started slow, running as far as I could, walking just long enough to catch my breath and slightly slow my heart rate, then I would go again. Eventually the running intervals got longer and the walking breaks became fewer. My usual route was 3-4 miles, depending on the weather, time constraints, and my mood. I lived to get in my run each day. It was the highlight of my day. The days I worked, which was pretty much every day between the three jobs I held, I would pack my running clothes (old, shabby, stained clothes with shoes that were far too worn out to be acceptable by serious runners, but it was what I had) and as soon as work ended I would head down town for my run. I loved it.
Perhaps that's what makes my current state even more difficult. I know what it's like to be fit. I know what it's like to be able to run 3-4 miles at a good clip no problem. I know what it's like for people to look at me in admiration, thinking to themselves "Good for her."
I am none of those things right now. My "run" is really more of a fast walk. My distance is a quarter to a half mile at a time, and when I slow to a walk I'm wheezing. People look at me in pity, clothes ill fitting, sweat drenching through the layers, my face pure misery.
Even completing a Couch to 5K run feels impossible. I'm struggling with the most painful shin splints and simultaneous calf cramps, which makes walking nearly impossible and running both slow and painful. I had to stop periodically and grasp onto a mailbox to at least stretch out my calves -- tears streaming down my face.
My husband rode the bike next to me, to encourage me and be there for me. I was so grateful that he was there. But I was also embarrassed -- I could barely even do this "run," and what I could do had me in literal tears of pain. He felt sorry for me - offered me his shirt to dry my tears, offered me the bike to ride home on. When I refused the bike, he got off the bike and walked next to me the rest of the way home. Sweet. Embarrassing. Heart breaking.
But I did not take the offer of the bike. I finished my intervals. I did an extra interval (though I'm sure it was extremely slow). I pushed through the tears and the pain.
I want to enjoy running again. But that will take a lot of time I think. Time I'm willing to invest. I had forgotten this part of becoming a runner - I only remember what it's like once I was a runner. But even though I was thinking those things, thinking of failure and disappointment and frustration and impatience, I was also repeating this to myself:
And I kept going.
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