Double Digits

I have a big surprise! I’m really hard on myself…okay not a surprise or a secret and quite frankly you wouldn’t even need to read past posts to catch onto that.

Although I may have incredible physical balance, my balance with life or hobbies is the bane of my existence. Everything is on or off, 200% or 0%. This is nothing to be ashamed of or further beat myself up about, but something I have to be aware of.

I’ve stayed away from drugs my entire life, I spent 2 years sober and even put a hard deadline on my smoking habit the moment I lit the first one. Checks and balances, so fun. 

You might applaud this neurotic behavior because I just mentioned things that are hazardous to my health, but oh no it doesn’t stop there.

 Athletics.

I have been involved in an athletic pursuit since I was roughly 4 years old. Started with dance, and moved to gymnastics where of course I was 200%, training 35 hours a week for years until eventual burnout, and the myriad of sports that followed in the next 25 years. I have always outran, muscled, and performed all my peers. “Nobody gets it their first time!” an exclamation falling from all my friends’ mouths as I try a sport I’ve never attempted before, for as long as I can remember. Great right? Nah. Due to the impeccable standard I hold myself to I find myself specifically not going on runs because my pace is double digits.

I would tell you I’m not a runner, just like I would tell you I’m not a climber. Even though I have probably run more than most people and climbed more than the average person because I’m not running 30 miles a week. In the last two years, I have gone on only a handful of runs, not because I was injured or had other pursuits but simply because I didn’t want to. I was turned away because if I’m not running a sub 9-minute pace why would I go? My mountain athlete friends will laugh at me. The running camps on the track will taunt me.

Has anyone ever done either of those? No. But the insecurity of my lack of conditioning crawls through my skin and seeps out of every pore more than the sweat dripping off my nose.

Here’s the funniest catch of it all; every time I see someone who is running or even WALKING outside to better their body I find myself saying “Fuck yeah! Look at them go!” no matter their pace, age, or physique. I have never thought “Wow they’re running slow” or “Why are they walking they look fit?”

But because I LOOK fit, I’m convinced that people will have this notion I should be the fastest runner or that I’m the strongest female they’ve ever met, fully capable of feats unimaginable. Expectations I shoot down at first sight, most of the time preventing by refusing to call myself runner, climber, etc.

Over the weekend I went on a run. On a long stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. It’s pretty busy with cars flying at 60 mph (yes, Mom I know it’s not considered safe), but you won’t see a soul doing that silly fitness business. I went for the sole reason that I was craving the time when I ran alone and far. The sounds of my feet crunching pavement in a steady cadence and time alone to be with my thoughts (I’m one of my favorite people to spend time with).

Casual. Keep it casual. Go slow. Stop when you need to.

These words are on repeat as a mantra.

I did 5 miles, in honestly pretty shitty conditions. I walked when I wanted to. I waved at a bunch of cows. I skipped and danced. Was my pace in the double digits? Yes. Was I doing some zone 2 training? No, my heart was happily beating out of my chest leaving me beat red (that might’ve been the 11UV index and my lack of sunscreen).

But I did it. I was happier after, I was fitter after. No one threw a can at me out their car window telling me how much I suck at running. I just ran. But I also did more than that, I was healing this part of me too.

So, here’s to casual. Here’s to waving at cows. Here’s to double-digit paces.