I recently decided that my dream is to stick with running for the rest of my life. Every runner's high that hits me reminds me why I love to run, the freedom I find in running, the sense of accomplishment and pride.
But I am limited by time, money and resources at this point in life. My conclusion is that as an active runner in retirement, I will travel the world - running a road race or marathon in every new location I visit.
There is a list of international marathons here: http://aimsworldrunning.org/Calendar.htm
One day, if I can get sponsorship or have the money myself, I'll run the North Pole Marathon.
Showing posts with label goals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goals. Show all posts
Goals are dreams with deadlines.
Sunday, March 1, 2009 deadlines, goals, introduction
Goals are dreams with deadlines. - Diana Scharf Hunt
The Beginning
I began running for pleasure two years ago. Pleasure and running in the same sentence? I never thought it would be possible unless it referred to the termination of that particular physical activity.
I ran a bit back in high school for after-school sports. I dabbled with the idea of jogging in college, although it never came to fruition beyond a panicked sprint to an 8am lab class. I even had a brief post-college delusion about starting to workout regularly that led to the purchase of a far-too-snug, overpriced Underarmor shirt. But let's face it, by the time I hit 25 years old, two blocks down the road and I was wheezing, my lungs screaming and in the sort of pain that is reserved for symptoms usually relieved by Midol.
Running seemed torturous. Running long-distance seemed masochistic. Running long-distance races while being timed amidst competative athletic peers seemed straight up impossible.
Then shit hit the fan.
Now typically when people ask me about how I started running I have to demur. My start was very atypical. In fact it was borderline self-flagellation, and I have no practical advice to offer on overcoming that initial demoralizing, painful, boring hump. This is because I started out bent on physically and emotionally exhausting myself to the point of collapse.
I joined a gym in a state of emotional turmoil, and I stepped on a treadmill a few weeks later when I realized that the elliptical machine simply didn't have the sadistic capacity to bring me to my knees. I was outrunning emotional pain, literally.
By the time I started to feel better, saw the bright light of optimism in the form of a charming blonde sailor, I had actually started to enjoy running. I totally skipped the bad part where most people recover their sanity and go back to eating Cheetos on the couch. I began to notice that I looked forward to hopping on the treadmill and pushing out a 40 minute jog (when people weren't waiting for the machines, of course, per gym policy!). And throughout the ups and downs of my personal life over that year I always could rely upon the gym and running the cheer me up.
Then one day I thought that perhaps I needed a serious goal. Watching Lou Dobbs at a 6.5mph pace each night between 7pm and 8pm was enjoyable, but not the level of motivation I started to crave. That motivation materialized in the form of a St Patrick's Day 5k road race, a race that would end in a pub crawl with a shining finisher's medal hung around my neck.
This race business meant that I was going to have to leave the safe haven of the steady, clocked treadmill runs for the most daunting environment of all: the urban outdoors.
Now running along cement sidewalks, jumping curbs, gauging stoplights and dodging through busy intersections could be considered a sport in and of itself. Given where I live, there is no way for me to avoid this metropolitan obstacle course. In fact, I can't even effectively gauge my pace because I spend so much time avoiding near-death. When it comes down to race courses, they're like beautiful, flat vacant straightaways. But I digress.
My first jog outside was to get the lay of the land. It sucked. I had wanted to see the race course that I'd be facing, and when I did, it appeared to literally be an uphill battle. You see, as embarrassed as I am to admit this, I never considered putting much of an incline on my treadmill runs that previous year. Ouch.
In spite of the learning curve involved with running on hills and pavement, I was finally presented with a new exhilarating challenge. I had a tangible goal. A deadline for achievement. I had a gauge of what a good time was for that distance. I had two months to improve upon it.
Now that first race didn't really go as planned. I suffered from disabling shin splints a week before and ran the thing in a leg brace two days before I had x-rays to clarify if it was a tibial fracture or not. But it was a hell of a race, a hell of a feeling coming through that finish line. I was hooked. No two ways about it. I immediately signed up for four more races that spring.
That's how it all began.
The Beginning
I began running for pleasure two years ago. Pleasure and running in the same sentence? I never thought it would be possible unless it referred to the termination of that particular physical activity.
I ran a bit back in high school for after-school sports. I dabbled with the idea of jogging in college, although it never came to fruition beyond a panicked sprint to an 8am lab class. I even had a brief post-college delusion about starting to workout regularly that led to the purchase of a far-too-snug, overpriced Underarmor shirt. But let's face it, by the time I hit 25 years old, two blocks down the road and I was wheezing, my lungs screaming and in the sort of pain that is reserved for symptoms usually relieved by Midol.
Running seemed torturous. Running long-distance seemed masochistic. Running long-distance races while being timed amidst competative athletic peers seemed straight up impossible.
Then shit hit the fan.
Now typically when people ask me about how I started running I have to demur. My start was very atypical. In fact it was borderline self-flagellation, and I have no practical advice to offer on overcoming that initial demoralizing, painful, boring hump. This is because I started out bent on physically and emotionally exhausting myself to the point of collapse.
I joined a gym in a state of emotional turmoil, and I stepped on a treadmill a few weeks later when I realized that the elliptical machine simply didn't have the sadistic capacity to bring me to my knees. I was outrunning emotional pain, literally.
By the time I started to feel better, saw the bright light of optimism in the form of a charming blonde sailor, I had actually started to enjoy running. I totally skipped the bad part where most people recover their sanity and go back to eating Cheetos on the couch. I began to notice that I looked forward to hopping on the treadmill and pushing out a 40 minute jog (when people weren't waiting for the machines, of course, per gym policy!). And throughout the ups and downs of my personal life over that year I always could rely upon the gym and running the cheer me up.
Then one day I thought that perhaps I needed a serious goal. Watching Lou Dobbs at a 6.5mph pace each night between 7pm and 8pm was enjoyable, but not the level of motivation I started to crave. That motivation materialized in the form of a St Patrick's Day 5k road race, a race that would end in a pub crawl with a shining finisher's medal hung around my neck.
This race business meant that I was going to have to leave the safe haven of the steady, clocked treadmill runs for the most daunting environment of all: the urban outdoors.
Now running along cement sidewalks, jumping curbs, gauging stoplights and dodging through busy intersections could be considered a sport in and of itself. Given where I live, there is no way for me to avoid this metropolitan obstacle course. In fact, I can't even effectively gauge my pace because I spend so much time avoiding near-death. When it comes down to race courses, they're like beautiful, flat vacant straightaways. But I digress.
My first jog outside was to get the lay of the land. It sucked. I had wanted to see the race course that I'd be facing, and when I did, it appeared to literally be an uphill battle. You see, as embarrassed as I am to admit this, I never considered putting much of an incline on my treadmill runs that previous year. Ouch.
In spite of the learning curve involved with running on hills and pavement, I was finally presented with a new exhilarating challenge. I had a tangible goal. A deadline for achievement. I had a gauge of what a good time was for that distance. I had two months to improve upon it.
Now that first race didn't really go as planned. I suffered from disabling shin splints a week before and ran the thing in a leg brace two days before I had x-rays to clarify if it was a tibial fracture or not. But it was a hell of a race, a hell of a feeling coming through that finish line. I was hooked. No two ways about it. I immediately signed up for four more races that spring.
That's how it all began.
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