I like to do long runs on Sundays. I can sleep in late (for me), which usually means listening to On Being while I doze in and out. This morning, all five mammals in our family were in my bedroom; four out of five were in the bed with us (Bella was sleeping on the dog bed on the floor). Squishy but cozy.
7AM: up and out. The intention was an hour of running and hope it was at least 4 miles.
Mile 1: Disappointed that I wasn't able to sustain running for as long as I had been earlier in the week. Tired from a long day of work yesterday. Achy loose joints (hello, hormones). Couldn't decide between music and NPR (finally landed on music). Cranky around the edges. This is not going well.
Mile 2: Mindless movement. Some walking. Some running. Meh.
Mile 4: Fifty minutes. I got this.
Then I had a weird thought: I have a friend who recently made her goal weight of under 140 lbs. Then it occurred to me that for some of the pages and blogs that I follow, I am what they want to be by simply being solidly under 200 lbs. People say they are inspired by my journey, but I'm so deep into my head that I just don't see it. I need to be gentler with myself. We all do.
I round the corner; I'm finishing up the hour and check my mileage--4.8 miles. I might as well finish up the 5 miles.
And I do.
And I think I could keep going. I think I could do at least another 1.2 miles. I could do a 10K. When? How soon? I could sign up for the 10K version of the Wildflower Run, but there's a strict 2 hours cut-off. That would be close. Which is better--more wildflowers or mimosas sooner? If there were a medal ...
Anyhow, maybe next Sunday I'll budget the time just to see.
