Blog Launch: I Am Not A Runner

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!

Dear God, please don’t let me die running.  Thank you.
Boston Marathon 2011

Jake found me just before the finish of the 2011 Boston Marathon. A photographer captured this very proud and emotional moment.

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