Drive

The first mile of every run I want to quit. My knees hurt, my ankles are cracking and my lungs are pleading for me to go back and sit on the couch. Most days, I want to cut my run short; to take a different turn, reverse and head back home. I tell myself I would still be burning calories. I would still be getting in a workout, but wouldn’t have to put myself through 45 minutes to an hour and a half of pounding pavement. No one would be the wiser.

A big part of me wants to give in. To settle for a shorter run. But another part of my brain pushes me on.

It’s the part of my brain that knows the pain is only temporary. That somewhere between 2 and 3.5 miles, my body yields and running begins to feel good. This part of my brain didn’t always exist. I have never been highly self motivated to push my body harder and farther. When I first started running, I wouldn’t even run by myself. Instead I was dragged out kicking and screaming twice a week by the most persistent, and chatty, friend I know. Eventually she learned to lie to me about the distance, knowing I would only complain.

Now I almost always run by myself. I still complain to myself, feeling as though I can’t relax on a weekend until my long run is out of the way. I still tell myself, no one would know if I didn’t run the full distance. But I would know.

And that keeps me going.

I used to think that a half marathon was well beyond what I can do. It petrified me; like most people, I’m not a fan of failure. But now, as I’m prepping for my second one, I have moved from terrified to excited. My body can do this. It may not do it fast, but it doesn’t stop.

I may never be a strong runner and I may never get that addictive “I need running” high that others get, but I don’t quit. And its worth it.