I love the gym. Put me in front of a weight rack and I am a happy girl.
I’m also partial to a little bit of Zumba. Pilates, trampolining classes, even some HIIT. I like to ride my bike and I love to swim.
But oh, how I hate to run.
I don’t like to run in the cold or the rain. I don’t like to run up hills. I don’t like to run, period.
So I wish someone would explain to me why I keep on signing up for races all the same.
I am a lousy runner. My form is terrible, my legs never seem to work properly and I don’t like how it makes my body feel during or afterwards.
But here’s the thing. As much as I hate it something compels me to do it, and I know that the process of running has taught me so much. About running, about life.
I have learned that you get what you train for. And conversely, you don’t get what you don’t train for. You can’t just turn up on the day and hope for a miracle.
Running slowly, is still running. And to coin a cliché, you are still lapping everyone sitting on the sofa.
By standing on the starting line of a race you are doing more than most people ever will.
When you are standing on that starting line you have no idea what made you do this and you want to go home. This feeling will persist until you run over the finish line, when you realise it was awesome and want to sign up for another one.
That it is all about striving to be your Personal Best, always.
You can only ever run your own race. Your only real competition, and also barrier, is yourself.
Nothing tastes better than a Jelly Baby mid-way through a run.
The sound of your feet on the pavement is life.
Dear running, I hate you. But I kind of love you too.