Sunday, June 30, 2013


It seems like getting myself on my feet and out the door becomes a chore every so often. It doesn't matter how many miles I've gone or how many races I've finished, I still end up in these funks.

They're silly funks, pointless.

There's no one saying I can't run. Just me.

There's no one telling me that I'm slow. Just me.

There's no one whispering that I don't belong. Just me.

After I ran the San Francisco Half Marathon, I was gun-ho about my next half in October. I was so pumped, I signed-up for a 3rd half in Denver, two weeks after the San Jose one. And yet.. two months after I hit my SF goal time almost exactly, I'm literally dragging my feet around, mopping about how I'm not a runner. What kind of mental flipflop is that?

I have a lot of excuses, do you want to hear them? They're all very good. Very convincing. They must be, if they've kept me off the streets for this long. (In my defense, one is legit – my tendon issue in my foot is back – but I'm not actively doing all I can to make that better so it is still an excuse.)

Rawr. Frustration. If I would just start, I know I would fall in love again.

Starting is the hard part. It always is. So many what-ifs.




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