I ran my 15K (9.3 miles) about two weeks ago and have been planning to start half-marathon training ever since. Unlike many runners, I don’t follow strict training plans. I usually just go with the flow and run what my body tells me to on any given day. I don’t even want to tell you how I prepared for my 15K. Shudders. Let’s just say I plan on training better and harder for my first half-marathon in July.
For the past two weeks, I’ve wanted to start pushing myself harder — but the weather’s been total crap. My goal has been the half all along, so in a way, I’ve been training since I first became a runner last summer. Still, I was ready for these final months to mean more miles, more effort.
Instead, it’s been the treadmill. I hate the treadmill. It’s so much harder for me than running outside, and the most I’ll do is a mile or two, even though I can run four times that outdoors. This morning, though, we finally had sunshine. I was excited for my first outdoor run in two weeks. I geared up, aiming for anywhere from 6–9 miles.
I made it two.
A wicked side stitch hit, and my legs were still burning from Friday night’s gym workout. I jogged to my car in defeat. This was not the triumphant start to half-marathon training I’d pictured.
Afterward, I felt like a failure. Like a fake runner. Nothing like how I felt crossing the finish line of my 15K two weeks ago, riding that million-bucks high. I was sad — until I forced myself to remember where I started. Nine months ago, I could only run for a few seconds without stopping. A single mile was a reason to cheer. Today’s “only two miles” would have been cause for celebration back then.
True, I ran 9.3 miles in my 15K. True, I rarely run less than 3 miles now, usually aiming for 5. But how can I be disappointed when I think about who I was and where I came from?
Today, I had a bad run. But I am not a bad runner. I’m not a failure or a fake. I’m a runner, even if some days two miles feel impossible. I’m a runner, even if my “good” miles are still 11 minutes long. I run not to win races, but to compete with the person I used to be and to become the person I want to be.
I run because it’s hard. Because it hurts. Because it demands heart and determination. Because it reminds me I am stronger than I think.
Today I had a bad run. Tomorrow, I will run again.
Today I had a bad run. And I am still — always — a runner.
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