Like a mall rat but this rat is found on a track
Dare I say it…I’m becoming a regular at the gym. Well regular enough that the guy at the desk gives me a head nod as I check-in, although truthfully he is probably confusing me with Buffy who also attends the same gym and is quite vocal about wanting to wear a scarf during her workout but I digress. I have been putting my money where my mouth is and working towards becoming a runner and not just saying that I run.
Buffy and I hit the track yesterday after we both acknowledged that
1. We didn’t want to drive to the gym
2. It was just too darned nice out to hide in said gym and
3. The treadmill will give you a false positive.
We returned to our old stomping (pun intended) grounds, the smallish but accessible, Pennwood High. As we got back into the old routine of walk one lap, run one lap I had to remind myself of a few things: it’s OK to be out of breath (cause I’m running after all), stop worrying about what people think (cause no one cares) and four year-olds have way more energy than someone NINE times their ages.
Huffing and puffing aka out of breath.
For some only Rachee known reason I think the idea of me huffing and puffing as I run is offensive to those nearby. While I believe myself to be a reasonably intelligent woman and I wrap my head around the notion that running is exerting energy which will cause a physical change to the body, there are times that I am still shy about sounding like a panting dig. The sweaty, erm, glow is OK but gasping for air always hurtles me back to gym class and Mr. Pugh’s insistence that I run the 600 yard dash. [shiver, the memory is taking over…I’m back now]
Q: What has two thumbs and doesn’t give a crap?
A: The other people at the track.
Again, my conceit led me to believe that someone really cared about how fast I run, whether I completed the laps as I said (briskly walk one, run one) and other things that obviously my judgemental butt was projecting. No one cares! Not that lady on her bike, the coaches waiting for the end of practice or the other people, to quote Buffy, getting it in.
Four Year-olds are friggin’ fast!
One of my daycare kids was playing near the track as Buffy and I chugged along. After I scooped him up for a hug, he then thought I should race him every time I came near. And those little legs were fast! Without going into detail (which includes pained gasps for breath from me and him skipping to play with his brother) let me just say my legs are still tight even after stretching, a shower and a short massage.
Really good time. I feel like I may actually shave a minute or two off of my last 5K (A Reindeer Run from December).
PS: We saw a bunny chilling in someone’s front yard on our way there!