At the beginning of the summer I signed up for a 10km (that’s like 6 miles for my dear American friends)run in the first week of September. I haven’t raced for over a year now, and I’ve never done a run this long. Today, I was getting all discouraged because I had failed my goal of running every morning in August. Also, my times for running the 10km are still very slow. An hour and ten minutes to run 10k is practically a crawl. If I had just stuck to a stricter training regimen, I scolded myself, I would be so much faster, and I would be so much happier with myself.
And then I stopped and realized something (actually, I didn’t stop; I kept running. But my train of thought stopped.) I realized, hey! I can run 10k now! I could barely run 4 when I started. That’s not exactly something to be down on myself about.
When I cross the finish line two weeks from now at an hour ten, I will hold my head up high. I can run 10k. I’m a real live runner. That’s not something to sneeze at, it’s something to celebrate. (Perhaps over ice cream. I may be a runner now, but that doesn’t mean I’m replacing Ben and Jerry’s with Gatorade and protein bars.)