I don’t consider myself a runner and I don’t have ambitions to jog super long distances at super high speeds.
However, the days of my life keep coming and my children keep growing. If I’m lucky enough to be around to see their children, I also want to be able to run and jump and play with them. I want to teach them to execute a great pick-and-roll (that’s basketball, for you non-players); I want to play goalie in the front yard when they kick a soccer ball; I want to hike with them and experience nature’s beauty together.
And so I run.
I started two years ago and could just barely make it to the other end of our not-so-big neighborhood without huffing and puffing. I walked back. Eventually I jogged back, slowly, and this was a big deal. I decided to join the big leagues and left the neighborhood. I ran a whole mile and gosh, it felt good. What it did for my mind was exponentially bigger than what it did for my body.
I kept running.
I find that running makes a difference for me in myriad ways. It’s a little easier to get up & down the basketball court during my weekly game. I tend to make smarter food choices on the days that I run, because, dear Lord, why would I go through all of that pain and effort only to derail myself with a Snickers bar? I feel stronger. I have more energy. I get more done.
Despite these fantastic benefits, I still don’t consider myself a runner. I’m just not that dedicated. And I still don’t like it. You won’t find me out there every day, or even every other day, hitting the pavement. I play basketball once a week and torture myself in a spin class once a week. I try to get to yoga or pilates, two of the best programs I know for helping you to build strength, gain balance, and own your body. I walk. And one or two or three times a week, I get out there and run.
Bring it on, future grandkids. I’ll be waiting.
