I’d been jogging about 20 minutes and I’d never before reached Sandalwood Drive. But today I wanted to see how far I could run this Sunday morning and I pushed myself.
Past the pain in my legs and the burning in my lungs. The house music blaring in my iPod and pure willpower drove me on.
I’ve been jogging for the last three months training to run my first 5K in November. Despite all my best efforts I’ve never gone further than 2.3 miles. Not that I can complain—that’s about 2.2 miles further than I could ever run and I’m 20 pounds lighter than I was just two short months ago. But I am a woman on a mission.
I am running because my cousin who’d never run before trained to run a marathon and did it while being a busy mom of two. I am running because my beloved friend from high school died of a double pulmonary embolism—she can’t run anymore. I am running for my brother who is so overweight and who I fear won’t live to see his fortieth birthday—I want to show him I can be healthy and be a role model. All my friends on Facebook are cheering me on, encouraging me to go further, push the envelope and run that 5K.
And most of all, I am running for me. For the sheer challenge it represents. For the 20 pounds I have lost and the 80 more I want to lose.
I pushed the limits of my endurance and I hit Sandalwood drive—1.6 miles from my home. I’d never run that far. I was ridiculously excited. I DID IT.
I did a double victory lap around the lamppost whooping and hollering. Then, in the cold, dark Sunday dawn, I turned around and headed home.