So, last week I signed up to run a 10 mile race.
Yes. On purpose.
I’m not quite sure what inspired me to do this, because if you’ve read some of my very early blog posts (Which I’m sure you haven’t, because Paula In The Country was not the worldwide sensation then that it is today. Shut up. Just go with it.), you’ll find that I did this exact same race last year, and didn’t find it particularly enjoyable then. I haven’t miraculously begun to love running since. Trust me on that. Granted, I’ve gotten slightly better at it, and am now at least able to run a 5K without having what I’m pretty sure is a very mild heart attack only curable by bagel, Big Gulp, or cupcake. But still. In sunny 45 – 70 degree weather, a nice 3 mile run can actually be quite refreshing. Once a month or so. With some walking breaks in the middle. Actually, it’d be ideal if I could get a little running monkey to follow behind me with snacks and stuff, too. Maybe some Triscuits. They’re good carbs, right? They have fiber. Would I be required to clean up after the monkey if it pooped on a nature trail, you think? It’s not like Triscuit monkey can wear a diaper or anything. That’d just look silly. Anyway… I got way off on a tangent there. That happens when I start talking about snacks and monkeys.
So, you may be asking yourselves, “Paula In The Country, why did you sign up to do such a stupid thing if you hate running?”. Well, smartass, I’ll tell you. Uhhhhh…
Shit, I can’t remember now.
Wait! I remember!
It’s because for a brief moment, upon completing that 10 miles, after I’ve gotten past my extremely angry “I’m never doing this bullshit ever again!” moment as I’m drooling on myself and trying not to pass out immediately following the race, there’s a different feeling… One of “Holy shit. I just ran 10 miles. 10. Fucking. Miles! I’m a Goddamn badass!”. Yeah, I know there are a lot of half-marathon and marathon runners out there who would scoff at my measly 10 miles, but for a girl like me, who graduated high school at well over 200 pounds, rarely exercised until my mid-20’s, and has never, EVER been athletic in the least, unless you count ping-pong or marathon White Castle slider-eating, 10 miles actually is a pretty badass thing. So that moment- That, “I’m proud of me.” moment makes all of the struggling through training, getting up at 4:30am to run 5 miles on a Wednesday before work, two months of sore calves, and smelly, sweaty feet, completely worth it. As lame as that sounds. Plus, there are Mimosas and chocolate malts afterwards. That helps, too. I refuse, however, to ever say, “You go, girl!” to myself. Not out loud, anyway. Maybe, like, in my car on the way home while listening to Kelly Clarkson or something. There may be three snaps in a Z form as well.
Until then, wish me luck in getting through the next couple months of running hell without the aid of a Triscuit-toting running monkey. It could get rough.