Length Matters

Sundays are turning out to be my "long run" days. These are the days where you push yourself to typically run a mile more than you did the previous week. Which means every Sunday I am running a distance I haven't run in... years. Last Sunday was four miles. While that may sound mild, I wasn't sure I'd make it.

First, I had a back-up plan. Erich was home, and I warned him that if I called him he would need to come pick me up ASAP. I might be on the asphalt puking, so there would be urgency in that call. He accepted this task, shaking his head back and forth. He probably was feeling exasperated in having married someone that puts him on puke emergency response, but I like to think he was admiring me for getting ready to run FOUR miles.

As I got started I realized that for SOME reason the first mile of my run was uphill; not very good planning on MY part. I nearly called Erich fifty times chugging along up that hill. And then it happened: my life came full circle. Ever so briefly.

This new four-mile route had me running past my old middle school, something I have never done. Now, this may be hard to believe, but in middle and high school I was very anti-running. Most weeks I had my PE note, excusing me from running, all ready to go. Running was cruel and unusual punishment, and I wasn't going to submit; I knew my rights. The weeks I couldn't squeeze a note out of my mom, I would defiantly look at my PE teacher and claim to have cramps. I would arch my brows in such a way, daring my male teacher to argue with me, to tell me to run through the cramps (you know, the ones I probably didn't have.) And, luckily for all my teachers, most of the time they didn't want to pick that battle. Because I was going to die on the no-running hill.

Anyway, now here I was, an adult running past THAT school. RUNNING. Running past one of the schools where I refused to run. And as I slowed down to appreciate the irony I threw up. Right on the lawn of my old middle school. And in that moment I had a brief, vomit-induced full-circle moment. Life is funny when you are running so hard uphill in front of one of the very places you used to refuse to run that you actually vomit. I thought my PE teachers might be impressed. And then they'd be pretty angry about the vomit.

I continued running, and thankfully, I run pretty darn fast nowadays. Downhill. Downhill running is my favorite. I'm chubby, so I have inertia. Which means I kick ass on the downhills. I made a turn to begin the two mile portion behind my house in a somewhat commercialized area and saw Cold Stone. I started deliberately slowing down, contemplating stopping for a snack. Before you make the face you're probably already making, consider all the calories I was burning by running around. Also, I had just thrown up my lunch. A frozen dairy treat break wouldn't be the WORST thing ever. I actually started walking TOWARD the Cold Stone. True Story. I really was going to have Cold Stone. In the middle of my long run. But then I remembered I had NO money on me. No wallet. No card. No cash. And honestly? I was sad about it. I was truly disappointed I couldn't have my mid-run Cold Stone. I considered calling Erich to come pick me up at the Cold Stone, asking him to bring money. But just picturing his face and hearing him mumble, "God dammit, Jennifer" was enough to make me run back over to the path and pick up where I left off.

Looking back that's ridiculous. I probably would have just thrown that up, also. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. Continuing on my run actually went pretty smoothly. I finished those four miles in an hour. Which I was pretty proud of. And I didn't even eat ice cream at the half-way point. As soon as I got home I sat in a chair and made a noise like I was about to cry. I mean, I didn't cry. But it hit me at that moment that four miles was a lot. The length of the run really matters. It was a record for me. I was proud. And also very exhausted. This week is a repeat week for me where I will run four again. Am I bringing money this time? Stay tuned.