Week 8 (Hell Yeah!)

I came home crying from my run today.

This isn't unusual for me. Running sucks and I'm not good at it and I have a peculiar blend of willpower, self-disgust, and enthusiasm that's kept me at it for months now. There have been many days where I have come home crying or fallen onto the floor, pressed my face into the carpet, and cried like a little girl until I was dry.

This isn't necessarily a cause for concern. I cry a lot. It alarmed my father the first several times he caught me at it, crying through soccer, trying through a hard karate class, crying hysterically as I tried to make my way up a climbing wall (little known fact - I'm afraid of climbing. Not -heights-, climbing. Ladders scare me witless, but I'll spend all day on a roof, completely at ease). After awhile, he came to the conclusion that crying was just something I do. When my body or spirit reaches a certain level of stress, it starts to cry to leak tension. "What no one else gets," my father once said. "Is that you crying isn't you giving up. From what I've seen when you start crying is when you're really digging against something."

So I've cried a lot. I've cried because I'm not good at it, I've cried 'cause it hurt. I've cried because every time I feel bad about myself I go running and running doesn't make the hurt go away. I've cried because I haven't seen results and I've cried because I can't quit this and still respect myself. I'm backed up against a wall with no way out that'll let me continue being me.

Today was the first time in my entire life I came home crying from sheer joy and pride.

I went out yesterday and I did day one of week 8 which involves 18 minutes of running, with a warm-up, a cool-down and a brief breather in the middle. This doesn't sound like a lot and it's not but you must remember that in January I was hard pressed to run 5 minutes without choking up a lung. So I went out today and I ran again and when I got to the end of my first 9 minute span, I kept going. I ran to ten minutes and I nodded my head, gave myself a pat on the back and grimly prepared for the second set that was now going to hurt much worse than I expected. And it did. I considered stopping at 8 minutes 'cause I'd already banked an extra, but I kept going, counting down the last minute in ten second intervals. And then.. I kept going. I ran a little over 10 minutes for my second set and I walked my 5 minute cool down and I thought about it.

Three months ago, I couldn't do that. Three months ago I couldn't make myself run the whole way through a song. But lookit me. I did it. I started running today and my pace was smooth and even and my little ponytail swung back and forth in smooth, steady metranome. My feet hit the pavement steady and my form was good. My pace didn't flag and my lungs didn't burn or scream. For the first time that I can ever remember I wrapped my arms around myself and I danced home saying, 'I love you'. Today I loved my body. Even though it's short and still chubby and not yet particularly athletic, today I feel like I can do it. I can keep running tomorrow and the day after and two weeks from now. And a month from now I'm going to be struggling through a route and I'm going to say "Remember when you could barely get through 20 minutes? -Now- lookit you. You can -do- this."

When I got home, I wiped my face off and hopped on my bike and cruised up and down the street for awhile, just full of joy and delight at the strength of my legs and lungs. By this time next year? I'm gonna run a 10k.