I diligently trained for 7 weeks, not missing one single training session and not cutting one second or one metre off my training schedule.
Did I enjoy it? Well the days when the sun was shining bright were easy to do. I was champing at the bit to get out in the sun, running alongside the river with the mountains, sometimes snow tipped, all around me.
There were other times when my husband literally had to kick me out of the door.
Using my treadmill was also banned because I find running on the treadmill way easier than running on the paved roads and gravel or packed earth trails.
The mornings there was a frost were some of the toughest of all. But I had asked my husband to make sure I didn’t shirk, so he stood firm and was resistant to my whining.
I hated doing the speedwork, my tempo runs always seemed to be the same beginning, middle and end. And I don’t want to even talk about Fartlek.
The thing is, week after week I ran farther and faster. My gasping became controlled gasping, then heavy breathing, which became controlled breathing.
Things that I didn’t know I owned were aching, then gradually they didn’t ache anymore.
As I got faster the runners in town who consider themselves “elite” stopped flashing by with their noses in the air and started saying “hi” or nodding. “Wow” I thought, “I’m finally a runner”.
My husband dutifully took interest in my progress, even though he was envious I was training and he was hooked up to his own personal bottle of toxicity 24/7. His interest and encouragement kept me going through the aches, and the disappointment that not one single pound in weight was being shed.
He duly admonished me if I went out for an 11km run on just a banana. Put up with my twitchy legs in bed after a long run because I hadn’t topped up my electrolytes at the end of the run. And generally egged me on.
Now the training is over, the run is tomorrow, all I need is a good nights sleep and I’m going to do my bit for the Terry Fox Foundation.
