There is a hill near my house, Cochran Road. It’s been my nemesis since I started running. It’s long, it’s steep, and there aren’t any traffic lights to break it up. You can either run it or you can’t. And for me, it was always ‘can’t’. Until today.
I was working from home today, and around 12:30 I decided to run. The weather was perfect. Sunny, breezy, low 50s. I was feeling good. I got dressed, started my tunes, and hit the streets. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t know how fast I was getting there.
I have ditched all of my run keepers, map my distance, blah de blahs because they were stressing me out. Instead of running because it made me happy and healthy, I was running for time. And if I didn’t do as good as I thought I should be doing, I would get mad at myself.
Instead of enjoying my runs I was dreading them. The constant chirp in my ear. The voice taunting me. Sure, it was saying “Average pace, 10 minutes and 15 seconds per mile”, what I was hearing was, “Well, SOMEONE sure is slow today. Wasn’t that your pace last week? Loser. Also, I don’t like you in those run capris”. That robot chick is a bitch.
So I said forget it. I don’t care how fast I am. I didn’t get into this to win races. I got into this because I fell in love with running. And today I fell back in love with it again.
I ran, oh, I’m guessing a little over four miles. I don’t know what my pace was. It felt faster than usual. I don’t know. All I know is that when I came to the bitch of a hill, I was feeling good. Better than good. I was feeling GREAT. I charged up that hill like a bull. A really, really slow bull.
And I made it. No stopping, no walking. I was winded, about to vomit, and feeling pretty darn good about myself. I was happy.
I am going to not care about my time until the Pittsburgh Marathon, at which point I am going to care very, very much about it and I will freak out and cry if I can’t get under 2:15. But hey, let’s charge that hill when we get there.
Yours in ass kickery,