This is Where The Effort Goes In

A week or so ago I sold one of our old mountain bikes. A friend at work had just had his stolen and remembered my email from way back when trying to get rid of two. Were they still for sale he asked. Indeed. Would I take a gift certificate instead of cash he asked. Indeed.

Turns out the certificate was for the Running Room. Hmm. Perhaps this was the motivation I needed to get back to running, a past time that I left behind when the snow melted.

Today I went there, to that store full of polyester and lycra, sport beans and energy bars, wicking socks and wicked runners. I stood there, looking at the wall of shame, trying to remember why I stopped running, trying to rationalize my belief that 6am was too early to get up and run and 8pm was too late. And with all of those shoes staring at me I realized, it wasn't time stopping me. It was ME stopping me.

It was at THAT moment that I decided to throw away my lazy pants and put on the responsible-take-better-care-of-myself pants. I had a whipper snapper of a sales gal who sold me the first pair of sneaks she brought out. She was JUST THAT GOOD. They were lovely. They were comfortable. They were made just for me. And they were exactly the amount my gift certificate was for.

I told my sister about them and we renewed our commitment to kicking each others asses into gear when we got slack and decided to find a race we could meet up at. I'm excited again. I want to run again. I want to sweat and breathe hard and feel my chest burn again. I want to find trails that no one knows of and scout routes that no ones thought of. I want to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Who knew a barter, a trade of two items neither person wanted any longer, would do that?

Tomorrow it begins. Just me, my well fitting shoes, and he ground beneath me keeping time. Off I go.