What It Feels Like To Run As Fast As a Kenyan

Often on my runs, I spend a lot of time talking to myself.  Mostly, the conversations go like this:

Me: “Just stop.  You suck.”

Me: “No, I got this.  I can do this.”

Me: “C’mon.  I know a great restaurant nearby.  Let’s get some pancakes!”

Me: “No, no pancakes.  I’m doing this.”

Me: “No you can’t, Fat Girl.  Just quit already!”

Me: “SHUT UP!!! I am going to do this!”

Don’t worry, the conversations all take place inside my own head, and rarely do I actually say anything out loud (and if I did, most other runners have ear buds in and wouldn’t hear me anyway.  Besides, this is New York.  I don’t even think they’d notice).  But, while I’m busy inflicting physical pain on myself in the name of being healthy, I also have these mental wars that often leave me more exhausted than the work out itself.

Not my run last Thursday, though.  Last Thursday I had to do a 7 mile training run before work as part of my preparation for the NYC Half Marathon in two weeks and the MORE/Fitness Half Marathon in 6 weeks.  But, rather than spending the 7 miles in constant debate between “Fit Girl” and “Fat Girl”, I ran with the confidence of Lance Armstrong (pre-doping debacle) and the speed of a Kenyan.  Well, OK, maybe a Kenyan with a broken leg who was still sleeping, but it felt fast.  Now, you might think that I just got sucked up in the warmish weather that we were blessed with on this last day in February, or I got a late start and needed to haul ass in order to finish my run and get to work on time (which is usually the case when I’m faster than usual on my midweek runs).  Nope, it was none of those.

Thursday, February 28^th was my birthday (really.  It’s not the 29^th.  If I had a nickel every time someone asked me that, I’d be rich enough to have someone write these blogs for me.  Hell, I’d be rich enough to have them run for me and then write about it).  I’m not going to hand you my age, but I’ll say that I was born the same year as Woodstock and the first American moon landing, and let you do the math from there.  If you’ve figured it out, feel free to do the same as my husband who enjoys not having to sleep in the car, and just refer to me as being in my “exceptionally late mid-30s.” Obviously, as we get older birthdays become less and less of a big deal, until we hit our 90s and they tend to get a little interesting again.  I was having a great run because I spent it thinking about birthdays past.

Before I lost my 70 pounds, birthdays were all about food: enormous dinners, rich cakes, and once I hit 21 :-) a fair amount of alcohol.  The thought of getting up early to exercise would have never crossed my mind.  So even though I was younger back then, I felt old.  I was always tired, and rarely proud of anything.  But now at 44 (if you hadn’t figured it out yet, you weren’t going to), I was training for 2 half marathons, the New York City Aquaphor Triathlon, and about a gazillion other races that will likely culminate in the New York Marathon in November.  Birthdays are now celebrated with early morning long runs where I get to spend time reminding myself that I’m capable of doing all this, rather than planning what foods I’m going to overindulge with at dinner.

Yes, of course I had cake that night.  While I was out running that morning, my husband and kids were decorating the cake they had made for me with every single sprinkle available in the lower 48 states.  There was no way I was going to disappoint two young children by not having some.  But to me, the true celebration was along the stretch of the FDR Drive Esplanade where I told myself that I was running as fast as a Kenyan.