One Foot in Front of the Other

I've been working in earnest to seriously train for the Ramblin' Rose Durham half-marathon.  That means getting my behind out of bed extra early several days a week, and giving up a big chunk of my time on Saturday mornings to run.

I've almost officially joined the Galloway Raleigh group, and have been implementing the run-walk method to great success.  So much so that last week, I completed my very first 12-mile training run.  I was scheduled to 10, but at the last minute my running partner, Diane the Relentless, talked me into going for those extra 2 miles. With a large group, fuel along the way, and two lovely water stops I made it without too much ado.  So, when this weekend rolled around, it was time to do it again.

 It was a beautiful morning - a bit humid, but nothing like the heat of a few weeks ago.  I was on the southern leg of the American Tobacco Trail so the scenery was quite beautiful (if you can avoid the horse droppings.) All was well - the folks on the trail were cheerful, as usual and the company was good.

When I go out on a long run like that, I'm always a little full of myself at the beginning.  Check me out!  I'm RUNNING!  I'm a runner!  Ha!  Say what you will, but I find a little bravado fun.  That usually wears off around the middle of the course.  I start to hesitate at the end of the walk break - trying to stretch out those final moments of rest before plunging back into a run.  

At about mile 8, I started to seriously question the wisdom of what I was doing.  The doubts started to surface.  You are never going to be able to do this.  I kept going.  One foot.  Then the other.  Who are you trying to impress? More steps.  Slower, maybe but still one foot, then the next.  You know, there's no shame in just walking back to the finish.  You can make it stop so easily.  And yet the steps kept coming.  I do not deny that at every walk break, I eagerly slowed down.  Nor do I deny that when then signal came for the next run interval that I griped about starting again.  But I kept going.  First one foot.  Then the other.  Good conversation and lovely scenery helped.  And somehow, the miles slipped by.

Actually - they didn't slip by.  The dragged by.  Lumbered by.  Creeped by.  But they went.  And at the end of the trail, I was still alive.  I could barely stand up, my feet were killing me and I looked like I had just gotten my ass kicked.  But doggone it, I had done it.

And on the drive home, I started to think about what next week's big run was going to be.