It occurred to me this morning that I need to get something off my chest to you, dear diary.
So here it is:
The blogs I really enjoy reading the most are the ones from runners who are slow. Not enjoy in a "thank-god-there's-someone-as-slow-as-me" kinda way, though I have to admit, since I'm in a confessional, that there is a bit of that in it.
No, mainly why I seek out blogs from slowpokes like me is because I want to be reassured that it's ok to be slow. And there are a few bloggers out there who are slow, but are totally ok with it. It's so not an issue. And friends (I mean Father), these days, that's what's really inspiring me. Because there's a goal I can embrace: my inner (well, and outer) slowness.
New runners who start out slow and then are soon flying up mountains in the desert are inspiring, too, just in a different way. The way Lance Armstrong is inspiring. Or Neil Armstrong, for that matter. Other-worldly inspiring. But just outta my league. And then after they inspire me, I start feeling bad, like I should be able to do that. And then I get jealous. And then I have to go to confession. Which sucks.
I can relate to slow runners. And the ones who are totally fine with it, are just, well, heroic.
Is this a bad thing? It's so un-American. I know I should be striving to get better, right? But does better always mean faster?
In any case, this week on my two four-miler maintenance runs, I made a deliberate decision, after three weeks of successively running faster, to just slow down. To about a 11:35 minute mile.
And so far? No pain, no guilt. (Well, except I started this post as a confession, for god's sake. So I might be lying about the no guilt part.)