I went for my run this morning. I so didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in bed where it was warm and soft. But yesterday, I announced my training schedule to the world here, and I figured I couldn’t blow it off the very next day. So I got up.
I was about 15 minutes late getting out the door and my 21-year-old son wasn’t home from work yet, so I had to let the dog out first. I looked at the clock on my way out thinking, “This is going to make me sooo late this morning.” But I went. It was foggy and cold, and my legs didn’t feel like moving. I walked a bit to warm up and picked it up to a jog. If I was going to make it to work on time, I had to get through this run in less than a half hour. I was only going 2.5 miles so I figured that shouldn’t be too hard. Still, I bargain with myself that I can walk when I need to (and I always walk some) but I did run more today than I did the last time. I keep pushing myself… an extra half a block, get around this corner or get to that tree, just push up this hill, you can make it to that purple car and then you can walk…and that seems to be working.
As I rounded the corner to go home, ugh, buses full of high school students. We live right by the high school. And it was time to run out the home stretch. I always try to run this last 1/4 mile a bit faster and I also didn’t want the high school kids thinking…look at that old lady trying to run, ha, ha, ha!, so I kicked it up.
That last quarter mile felt really good and as I approached home, my son got out of his car, home from work. He waited for me on the stoop.
“How was your run, mom?”
For some reason, that made me feel really good about myself. He was so matter of fact, like I’ve been doing this his whole life.
And in that moment, I became a “runner.”
“It was good. 2.5 miles in 25 minutes.”
It really is the little things that make this worthwhile.