Real runners know their splits. They know their PRs and they all speak in Garmin-ese. They look cute in their shorts or spandex and their ponytails (mostly ladies, but some guys, too). And they look fierce and strong and non-sweaty.
My face gets all red almost instantly. (I’m very Irish-y).
I sweat, which at first is a nice “atta girl” that I’m doing the old body some good. But after awhile, it’s blinding.
Literally, the sweat pours down my face and stings my contact lenses and blinds me. (*Note to self: get a sweatband or something that will absorb sweat and not make my hair look like Edward Scissorhands cut it).
Most runners have decent form. And by decent form, I mean they look as though they’re running.
You know when you watch a running race on TV – one of the Olympic trials or something – and the runners fly like the wind, cross the finish line and then their arms and legs flail a bit as they try to slow down? Those last few seconds of the race? Yeah. That’s how I look when I BEGIN running.
My times are horrible. In the last three years since I started this running gig, I’ve learned that I’m nothing if not consistent. I tend to hover around the 14:00 mile.
I’m not entirely certain you could call what I do “running.” Maybe it’s jogging. Maybe it’s stumbling. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. But the point is, I get out there. Whether it’s on the treadmill at the Y while my girls enjoy the play area or hobbling around my neighborhood.
And I’ve found that running is the only thing that helps me lose weight when I need to or keep it off when I want to.
Do you run? Am I the slowest runner on the face of the Earth?