I used to stink at running but also be really good at running.
Bad at jogging, good at dashing 100 to 200 meters (well, actually more like 175 meters...).
A little later in life I jogged a little bit at the Smith Fieldhouse for "health," but mostly to combat Jr Bacon Cheeseburgers, and I thought 20 minutes was Olympic.
A little later on I got the hang of a treadmill, and started to creep toward 3 miles, with the help of Hot Hot Heat and Ok Go of course.
And even later, but still a while ago, I began running outside and had a little click. Instead of stopping altogether when I got tired (aka bored), I'd walk for a minute and then run again. Hot dog, this got me going.
And then one day I was running Ragnar races and enjoying 5-mile runs regularly. I figured this was my jogging lifestyle and I'd carry on with it for a few more decades until osteoporosis prevented it.
But then we had this mild winter, my baby didn't need to be breastfed or constantly fussed over, and I kept running higher up the canyon. There is a campground up there, with a gate that's locked all winter, and it just taunted me and my quads, which itched to climb to it. I made six miles a regular thing, then seven. I felt like a champion after seven. Then eight, nine, and one day right before the National Forest road reopened, just under 10.
It blew my mind, too.
On an average morning I see 20 or so joggers up our little canyon. They've all already run the half marathon I'm running on Saturday. I kind of used to make fun of them--needing a race for motivation, "training," ha ha
I don't really know what I was mocking, but this I know:
I really really like running, especially on the road pictured above.
Maybe next I'll dedicate a post to my shoes
because everyone knows runners looooove to talk about running and stuff like that.