If you’ve been following my journey for any length of time, you know about my love/hate relationship with running. If not, you can read about it here, here, here, and here. (Note to self: put them all in one place!). I’ve started and stopped, started and stopped what seems like a million times.
Running has always been one of those things that seems impossible for me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve detested it. The bouncing of all my jiggly parts is just not something that I look forward to. One of my worst memories from school is of the first time I had to run a timed mile in eighth grade. I felt like I was doing my best, but it was absolutely mortifying to have not one, but two, laps left after some of my classmates were completely finished.
The only positive memory I have of running is when I was at my thinnest. You can read about that here. For some reason, I just felt like running one night (insert Forrest Gump reference here). My brother, Logan, rode his bike behind me and played music while I ran the two-mile loop around our neighborhood. When I got back to my house, I still had some left in me, so I did that damn loop again. I ran four miles without stopping. When I was done, Logan carried me into the house while playing the Rocky theme song. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I want that feeling again. I want that sense of accomplishment that you just can’t get from a 40-minute elliptical workout between classes. A couple of weeks ago, I actually did something about it.
If you can’t see what that is, it is my registration confirmation for my very first 5K. Don’t freak out about the Mini Marathon in the title. This girl won’t be touching that shit for quite some time. The race is in less than a month, and I am TERRIFIED.