I have never considered myself a runner. For 99 percent of my life, I despised running. My mom always ran and always tried to get me to join her, but I was much more comfortable on the couch. The little running I did was up and down the court during basketball season, and honestly, I did just enough to get by. I wasn't fast or strong or in great shape, but I could manage to get down the court, set up for a jump shot or drive to the basket. That seemed like enough then.
For the past couple of years, I've run more than I ever have. Which, is to most, not a lot. These days I usually run 2 or 3 times a week (in combination with my yoga, pilates, etc). I usually run around three miles, and, even after all this time, it is never easy for me. I don't think running will ever be easy for me, but I love the feeling after I'm done and I love pushing myself.
Last night, however, was a different story. Mom and I headed out on a new route and I felt tired probably halfway into the run. I had to stop and walk. I haven't stopped and walked in a very long time. I felt so defeated. So defeated, in fact, that soon I felt tears coming down my face.
The girl who didn't care about running had tears running down her face from a bad run?? In the past I would have been impressed that I had run at all and I would have brushed it off and walked the rest of the way. Last night I fought back tears and started running again. It was not easy. Whether I was dehydrated, hadn't fueled properly or my legs were tired from my lunch time pilates class, this run kicked my butt.
Now, I realize there are a lot of things in the world more worthy of tears than a bad run (like, the Bachelor and Carolina basketball losses), and I really do need to keep things in perspective but in a way, I'm grateful for that bad run. Old Lindsay would not have cared that she had to stop and walk. Current Lindsay had a mini-breakdown in the middle of White Oak Rd. The fact that I cared so much makes me think I may in fact be... wait for it... an actual runner.