A few weeks ago I complained about titles, and tried to decide if I could call myself a runner. Shortly after posting the article, my cousin sent me this:
I think that quite succinctly put my fear to rest. So I’m taking it. I’m going to call myself a runner.
Last week I ran all five weekdays (I know, right?!), totaling close to 14 miles for the week. With the help of Zombie’s, Run! and the strange motivation of actually enjoying running (I hear you, I also have NO IDEA WHO I AM RIGHT NOW), I wanted to run every day. I wanted to test myself, find my limits and use running as an escape. I have always wanted to be the person who goes for a run because they need to clear their head (a romantic notion), and while I’m nowhere close to drowning out the chorus of “we are your lungs, and you are trying to kill us,” I’m close to something resembling calm when I’m on a run. I’ve fleshed out plot lines for my book, dealt with stress of job hunting, and acted out verses of a few Britney Spears hits. I’m getting to a point where putting on my running shoes, stretching, jumping down the stairs and letting my feet hit the pavement is freeing. I love the feeling of running past people, I smile at strangers, I do a few extra dance moves for kicks. I want to cheer on fellow runners as though we’re all in our first marathon. I love feeling ready to quit and thinking “just to that tree, now that rock, now that mailbox, now that trash can, now the end of the block.”
I am ready to call myself a runner. I don’t have the proper shoes, my $13 sports bras are from Target, and I don’t know the first thing about compression socks. I haven’t finished a race, I’m by no means seasoned, and my form is far from perfect. But I’m taking the title.
I am a runner.