Yesterday I ran for the first time in seven weeks.
Seven, according to my Nike+ app.
Seven is a lot.
To be fair to myself, it was mostly justified. I had taken about a week off some weeks back when I fell off a sidewalk (don’t ask. Just don’t.) and landed squarely on my left anklebone. Seriously, it was a miracle I didn’t piledrive some bone into the pavement.
So that was my excuse for lo these many weeks.
But I realized over the last week how little I’ve been doing in the way of being active and going, and I was more than a little disgusted with myself. So I ran.
I ran a little over two miles, and I didn’t die. I even ran the majority of the time. I’d say it was a solid restart. And my ankle hurt not at all, so I think it’s safe to say it’s healed.
Anyway, that’s what’s happening here.
I’m actually a bit proud of myself. I have been running consistently for over a month. This is kind of a big deal…for me, if for no one else.
I’m not pretending to be great. I’m really slow and normally I hate the entire time I’m out there in the ground – to – galaxy humid soup air, but I feel so great when I do it. Endorphins or whatever, I like it. I count the hours until I can go again.
Josh doesn’t get it. He says I’m overdoing, which I’m not. I recognize muscle twinges and I don’t push myself too hard. I quit if I need to. It’s just something I enjoy.
Lucy likes it too. A friend loaned me her jogging stroller until her new baby could use it (which is pretty soon…I probably should try and get one of my own. They’re just so expensive.) and Lucy and I spend chunks of time waving at birds, cars, rocks, cornfields.
I really want to get into it, you know? I want to run events and know what the shit a power gel is. To think of my shoes in terms of miles instead of colors.
I think I can do this. Really.
I’ll keep you posted.