Have I told you how much I hate running?
Like I really despise it and want to murder the person who invented running.
And I vow right here and now– (with God as my witness) never, EVER to run another race.
Unless of course, my kid asks me to do it. Doh! Damn kids!
Today my daughter and I ran (and walked!) a 5K– her first.
It was hot. It was crowded. It was an annual community event that we often attend as spectators, to cheer on our friends and neighbors– each year fiddling with the idea of running.
Doesn’t look so bad, eh?
It was not good!
We were passed by runners with strollers.
We were passed by pregnant women ready to pop!
We were passed by young children, seemingly too young to conquer such a feat.
We were passed by competitive runners who started a much harder race long after ours.
We (I) peed my pants.
We poured cups of water on each other.
We ran (RAN!) through every sprinkler and hose we could find.
We held hands as we walked.
We laughed and rubbed our belly cramps.
We were not good–We were great!
We were slow as heck, with no bragging rights beyond that we decided to run a race and we finished! On past days we have run faster, and further, and today just wasn’t our day–but we played our tunes, and pinned our numbers on, and did what we set out to do. And we shared the sweaty, slow victory of completion–and then plotzed in a pool.
We did it– together.
Another sweet, salty summer memory for the books.
My preference for next year will be to cheer our friends along from the sidelines–
but I’ll never turn her down to be part of her team.