Insanity

I've never considered myself to be super athletic. I played YMCA soccer when I was in first grade, and I was the kid who won awards like "Best Effort" because I just wasn't that good. Same story with basketball (I think I scored one basket in two years of play) and softball. Hand-eye coordination? Not so much. In fourth grade, I did ice skating, which I was decent at, although I was certainly never going to be an Olympian. I rode horses for a while, but that was expensive and inconvenient. I ran cross country in a seriously misguided decision in the 7th grade, and I was truly awful. So by the time I got to high school, I was pretty much over athletics in the classic sense. I just chalked it up to being "not a sports person".

I don't really know when the shift happened. I worked out hardly at all my freshman year of college, although admittedly a daily 40 minute walk across campus could be considered a workout. I think I tried to go running once. When I transferred to OU in my sophomore year, I had easier access to a workout facility, and I started going every now and then. But it wasn't a priority. And then I moved to Italy.

This is a weird and unconventional way to get into exercise, since the Italians look down on wearing "pantalones du jogging" in public. I have never met a more frustrating people group. I never saw them working out, or a single gym, but they're all so skinny. And all they eat is carbs. How do they do it??? The world will never know... but I digress. The point is, I don't know if it was the influence of my lovely roommates, who convinced me to become a vegetarian and downloaded hilarious workout videos from itunes and used water bottles as weights, or just that I wanted to get out and see the city, or if after two months of carbs and rain I felt a little like a blob. It may have had something to do with the impending arrival of my new boyfriend to Florence and my pressing need to look good after 4 months of long distance Skyping. But I started to run. At first I could only run a little way before getting breathless. This was my problem in cross country back in the day - although the fact that it wasn't 108 degrees outside helped. But after a while, I figured out how to breathe correctly and discovered that I have a gift for making myself do things that don't necessarily feel good. And I learned how to ignore the creepy men staring at me as I jogged down the street.

After finishing my first half marathon in the rain.

Somewhere in there, running out of obligation turned into running for enjoyment. I thought maybe I would stop, but when I moved home, I kept going (even though it was summer and despicably hot). When I moved back to Norman for my senior year, I kept going. I bought a pair of Nike+ shoes so I could track my distance. I remember the first time I ran eight miles. It was like something snapped inside me and I was free to run as far and as fast as I wanted to. That's called a "runner's high", if you were curious. I've never been actually high, but I think the term is probably accurate. And then I just couldn't stop. I get cranky if I go more than a few days without running. I've run in thunderstorms, I've run in blazing heat, I get up at 5 am at least twice a week to run before work. Last December, I ran the White Rock Half Marathon in pouring rain while it was 40 degrees outside. It was the best experience of my life. I run in India when I'm there for work, and all the hotel people look at me like I'm insane, but I just need to do it. Somewhere along the way, I changed from "nonathlete" to "runner" - that's worth every mile I've pounded the pavement, every early morning, every bit of pain and agony to me. I earned that title, and I'm proud of it.

Last weekend, I ran the Hills and Heels half marathon in Irving, TX, in heat and humidity and a week after I got my wisdom teeth removed. It was hard, and my legs ached, and I wanted to quit at mile 11. But I didn't. Because the feeling of crossing that finish line is so, so good. I look like crap - I happen to turn really red when I get hot - and I smell like crap, and I want to fall over and die, but I know that in every cheesy finisher photo I take I have the biggest dang smile on my face because this is a moment of deep satisfaction and joy for me. Sometimes people ask me how to stop hating running, and I don't really know. I remember that I used to hate running, and I know now that I love running, and I think maybe it's just because I forced myself to do it until I didn't need to force myself anymore. Somewhere in there, it became a source of joy and a release from the stress of my life, where I can stop worrying and just go. I wish more of life was that simple, but I'm grateful for the minutes I spend sweating, aching, killing myself to get faster and stronger. And when life gets hard, I know that I can suck it up and tell myself, "You can do this. Just one more mile. And then you can lie down." I know you think I'm insane, but running is my sanity. It keeps me going.