Day: I did it!

Actually, it's night now, not day, but I had to report on this evening's run, which I didn't much feel like attempting as the rest of the family sat down to the meal I'd prepared with such effort and care (pasta with fresh-made pesto, and a quinoa/bean/veggie salad). But I put on my running clothes and my watch, and headed out. "I hope it doesn't start raining on me," I said. And it did. But by that point, I really didn't care.

I hadn't decided whether to do 10 or 12km, but of course, the further I went, the further I wanted to go, so I went to the 12.2km turnaround. I was pretty much exactly on course for 5-minutes per kilometre, which slightly bummed me out. Could I really not go any faster? My lungs were churning away, it seemed. So I decided to try to go faster. I pushed it even going up this very very long hill that's part of the eighth kilometre, and somehow managed to keep pace, and then I just got faster. It was weird. The last four kilometres were my fastest of the whole run. By the end, I'd run 12km in 58 minutes (I did note how long I had to wait for traffic and made those deductions; stupid traffic).

I'm still waiting for all of this to feel easy. (She says, smiling).

One good thing to report: my legs and muscles never felt tired. But that was balanced by my lungs feeling pretty much stretched to the limit. It makes me wonder: how do I improve my lung capacity? Is it just by pushing my breathing to its edge and staying there for as long as possible? Does it get easier? I also had the thought (realization) that no matter how much I train, my body is only capable of what it's capable of, if you know what I mean. I might be a 5-minute/kilometre runner, and that might be all that I can really do. Everyone has an end-point, no matter how much effort is put into it. I'm pretty darn certain I'll never be a 3-minute/kilometre runner. But I'd like to be a 4-minute/kilometre runner. That would be exciting.

The faster I ran, however, the more difficult it was to maintain control and balance. I tend to be a highly controlled runner. I run with a particular rhythm that involves breath and pace, and it's disconcerting to lose either. The two go together. It's very rhythmic.

Anyway, I arrived home a happy woman, excited by the accomplishment, and always, but always, dreaming of more. Why do I like to push myself so hard? I couldn't begin to tell you. All I know is, it's easier the further I run. The further I run, the more my conscious/self-conscious/worrying/can-I-really-keep-doing-this self gets pushed to the side, and some inner spirit takes over, a bit more reckless, a bit crazy, really. It's like digging down through layers until you've reached pure effort.