Every year, near the end of July, there’s a seven-mile road race held in a town down and across the river. It’s not the longest race in the country, but a lot of the winding course is more vertical than one might expect. It attracts a lot of distance runners, including a few who go on to win or place in bigger races.
My parents often come up to walk the entire course while the rest of the family does the two-mile family fun course.*
I’ve done the full seven miles only twice—once when I was three-months pregnant with Janie and once when I was unknowingly pregnant with Sunny and tried to run it, which was the beginning of the end for my knees. Between my balking joints, my general aversion to the outdoors during high summer, and a residual superstition concerning reproduction . . . I haven’t considered tackling it.
This year, I think I’ll try again. I’ve three months to get myself from a sitting start to a respectable amble.** I started small this morning—a fifteen minute walk around the mezzanine at work before I clocked in.
In retrospect, Skillet, 3Oh!3, and Metallica might have been a bit of an ambitious playlist for my first power walk in (cough, cough). I wish my feet weren’t talking to me right now . . . But my knees have remained silent,*** so we’ll see how it goes.
I’m hoping it will go at least seven miles. But if not, at least I’ll be moving forward, right?
* Or drops them off and writes for a couple hours until it’s time to pick them up . . .
** I’m not running it, so all of you wonderful people who just pulled up another tab to find the Couch-2-5K schedules for me, I truly appreciate your enthusiasm and help, but no.
***Or I haven’t been able to hear them over my kvetching tootsies. Tomato-tomahto