I got home from work last night (see, I told you a lot had happened recently) and I was so tired and cranky that I nearly just plopped down on the couch and gave in to a severe case of "I don't give a crap." But I'd told friends I was going to go for a run (walk), so I dragged myself upstairs and put on the loosest running clothes I could find and headed out.
I got out on to the main road where I used to run, intending to just walk a couple of miles, and maybe throw in some short bursts of running to get myself back into the swing of things. (It has, after all, been four freaking months since I took even one running step.) Three steps into my walk, however, I started to run.
Not fast, and I'm sure not pretty, but running, nevertheless. It felt goooood. I'd forgotten how much I missed it. After a little while, it started to feel less good. It felt a little like work, to be honest. But I figured I'd just go as far as I could before I had to walk.
A few minutes later, I realized that I really wanted to quit. Instead, I decided to turn around. Surely I could run all the way home - after all, I knew I hadn't even gone a mile yet. Surely I could run another "not even a mile" home, right?
I made it all the way home without walking, feeling like I'd just accomplished something. According to Google Maps (because I didn't bother wearing my poor, lonely Garmin), I'd run 1.8 miles.
Considering I've done 12 miles without walking before, and 41 miles of walking and running, 1.8 might not seem like much. But it felt like much. It felt like a really wonderful start back into something that I've been missing.
So... yay me! (I'm allowed to say that - it's my blog)
Next up - deciding what races to sign up for, even though I've told my husband (and myself) that NC24 will be my only race this year. Races are like chips, right? You can't just have ONE.