My son loves to run.
Jake fell in love with running a few years ago, and hasn’t stopped since. He can run 40 or 50 miles a week with his eyes closed. Well, not really. But HE CAN RUN. Me on the other hand, I enjoy WATCHING him run. And feeding him when he’s done.
I am not a runner.
Then one day almost a year ago, upon returning from yet another run, my son asked, “so what are you doing mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, for exercise.”
“Nothing…?” (Said in a guilty, I know I should be doing something voice.)
He asked, “Why not?”
My stupid answer, “I don’t know.”
Then my son asked, “Why don’t you start running?”
“Me run?? I don’t know.” Then something came over me. I don’t know if it was a need to impress my runner son, or that it felt like a dare, but he was right, and he called me out. I was a flabby weak thing and I needed to do something. So without thinking it through, I said “Okay.”
I started “running” (if you can call it that) in May 2011. It was brutal. Pure torture. Running was so uncomfortable for me that I was honestly nervous about having a heart attack. I couldn’t run a mile and barely half a mile. During one of these grueling, huffing and puffing one mile crawls with my (by now) son the coach, I somehow agreed to run a 5K by the end of summer. I don’t recall how this happened, but I remember we shook hands on it. And there it was. I just agreed to run 3.1 miles in a few months. I must have been oxygen deprived. I don’t go back on handshakes, so backing out or giving up was not an option. I will do this even if it kills me!