I did not like running in the first 30 years of my life. In playing sports, the requisite lap around the field before practice killed me; it was no coincidence I needed to tie my shoelaces or tape a joint that wasn't injured while the rest of the team took off for the 1/4 mile jog I resented so much.
So it's unexpected that in my 31st year I would sign up to run a marathon. I'm not sure what possessed me other than the somewhat capricious daydream that it would be so cool to finish a marathon. Last spring I ran in a relay race and my 5 mile leg would far exceed any distance I had ever run. Worse still, on race day our team botched the transitions and I ended running 6.5 miles. But to amazement, I did it! It nearly an hour and half and I threw up that afternoon, but still - the sense of accomplishment!
This fall when marathon registration opened I wanted to get into the half-marathon event. This proved more complicated than I expected and I was warned only half of the people wanting a half-marathon bib actually get one. And here's where the power of persuasion altered my course: the very friendly, convincing and brimming-with-certitude woman at the marathon office talked me into signing up for the full race.
The clincher was a class offered for first-time marathoners. I signed up immediately and spent the following days and weeks excited for the path I'd chosen. I started running at the gym more regularly, which is to say I actually went occasionally instead of thinking about and finding a reason not to. At this point, I could run 2 miles in at a 10-12 mile pace. I found this remarkable a point of pride because only a few earlier I was begging the digital display on the treadmill to tick off each 100th of a mile.
The class was set to start in January, giving me a couple of months to make progress on my own. I was on my way.
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