For the last few years, I’ve been saying that I would like to run a full marathon someday.
The funny thing is, I don’t think I have really believed I would do it. Especially after battling my first real running injury, I had kind of added running a marathon to the list of things it would be cool to have done but that I didn’t really expect to do. (You know, like swimming with sharks. Walking on the moon. Cutting my hair into a bob.)
In fact, I probably wouldn’t have signed up for the run I did if not for my ambitious friend who I had already discussed going to Paris and running a marathon with (separately). When I agreed to do it (at the same time), I did so despite the nagging voice in my brain whispering in a panicked voice that this was a bad idea.
Part of the problem was that the Philly Half wasn’t great for me. My training was tough, and I hadn’t run a 10+ miler that didn’t make me feel like death in over a year. I was really worried I had made a terrible (and expensive) mistake.
So when I set out to run twelve miles yesterday, it wasn’t without a healthy dose of trepidation.
I’m pleased to say, though, that the run went pretty great. I felt good at the end (though a little sore). My legs and hips felt a little tight, but I made it through without needing to stop at any point. That sounds like such a minor thing, but I can’t begin to tell you how much it put my mind at ease.
Because I can do this. It’s just going to be hard. But I’m a big believer in not running away from stuff just because it’s hard.
So now I can say, confidently, that I am running a full marathon. In April. In Paris. And this time, I really believe it.