I guess I can't back out now.
I wouldn't call myself an athlete. I sometimes even hesitate about using the term "runner." Maybe "jogger" is more appropriate for my speed. And I sometimes think that if I say "I'm a runner," people are probably looking me up and down and thinking, "Really? You?" I don't look like the lean, toned women in the pages of Runner's World, that's for sure.
But whatever stereotype I may or may not meet, the fact is that I just keep doing it. And have been for several years now. And I keep on liking it. Sunday mornings find me up with the sunrise for my long run. Before I go to bed I plan out my route, calculating exactly how many miles it ought to be this week. I lay out my clothes and my iPod and my shoes. And (I'm not kidding) I actually wake up excited for it. It's peaceful, just me and the birds and the occasional passing car. Afterward, I'm proud of myself. I stretch my tired muscles and throw off my sweaty clothes and reward myself with an extra egg at breakfast and an extra-hot shower. (This good mood lasts until early afternoon, when the exhaustion sets in and my muscles start to tighten up again).
But those nice long runs are private. They're just for me. Nobody's out there watching me, and nobody's clocking my time.
This year Eric and I signed up to run in the Hood to Coast relay. This race bills itself as "The Mother of All Relays," and it is quite intense. It's 197 miles long, all the way from Mount Hood to the Pacific Ocean. Twelve thousand people run it every year. One hundred ninety-seven miles. Twelve thousand people. That's a long way. And a lot of people. And if I choke--if I totally run out of steam and fall behind--people will know it. My team--which has a lot of runners who are much more experienced than I am--will know it. I don't want to be the loser on the team who slows everyone else down.
I've known it's coming for a long time. A year. But today I got my leg assignments. They are comparatively easy--two them are actually rated "easy." But that last one is rated "hard." And suddenly I'm nervous. Looking at the map of where I'm actually supposed to be running in a measly couple of months makes it frighteningly real. So I'm running. I'm sticking with it. Because now it's not just about being healthy or staying in shape or achieving a personal accomplishment. It's about not embarrassing myself.
That's a worthy goal, right?
But whatever stereotype I may or may not meet, the fact is that I just keep doing it. And have been for several years now. And I keep on liking it. Sunday mornings find me up with the sunrise for my long run. Before I go to bed I plan out my route, calculating exactly how many miles it ought to be this week. I lay out my clothes and my iPod and my shoes. And (I'm not kidding) I actually wake up excited for it. It's peaceful, just me and the birds and the occasional passing car. Afterward, I'm proud of myself. I stretch my tired muscles and throw off my sweaty clothes and reward myself with an extra egg at breakfast and an extra-hot shower. (This good mood lasts until early afternoon, when the exhaustion sets in and my muscles start to tighten up again).
But those nice long runs are private. They're just for me. Nobody's out there watching me, and nobody's clocking my time.
This year Eric and I signed up to run in the Hood to Coast relay. This race bills itself as "The Mother of All Relays," and it is quite intense. It's 197 miles long, all the way from Mount Hood to the Pacific Ocean. Twelve thousand people run it every year. One hundred ninety-seven miles. Twelve thousand people. That's a long way. And a lot of people. And if I choke--if I totally run out of steam and fall behind--people will know it. My team--which has a lot of runners who are much more experienced than I am--will know it. I don't want to be the loser on the team who slows everyone else down.
I've known it's coming for a long time. A year. But today I got my leg assignments. They are comparatively easy--two them are actually rated "easy." But that last one is rated "hard." And suddenly I'm nervous. Looking at the map of where I'm actually supposed to be running in a measly couple of months makes it frighteningly real. So I'm running. I'm sticking with it. Because now it's not just about being healthy or staying in shape or achieving a personal accomplishment. It's about not embarrassing myself.
That's a worthy goal, right?
4 comments:
I'll say it. You are crazy. But in a good way.
Jen, I am so proud of you! And yes, not wanting to be embarrassed is a fine goal ;-) My guess is that you will do better than you anticipate, yes there will be crowds, but that sometimes pushes people to do more than they thought they could do!
I have HEARD of that relay and I think it is KICK ASS. Way too kick ass for me. I had a friend who was going to do it last year, while nursing her baby in the car while driving to keep up with teammates. You runners are KRAZY. (And yes, if you're doing THAT, I classify you RUNNER.)
Wow! That is great. I still don't have the guts to run in an actual race yet.
I know what you mean about acknowlegding the fact that you are indeed a runner.
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