Before Jones was born, I ran sometimes. Usually it was just a few miles on the treadmill or a quick run around what I now know is not quite a three mile loop. Most of the time, I did the elliptical or the bikes in the gym. Two to three days a week I lifted weights. I was slender. I was fit. But I was not a runner.
Jones was born and forced me to run. I had to run for my mental health. I discovered it was something I could squeeze in between marathon nursing sessions. As I settled into motherhood though, I stopped running as much. I just hit the road when my jeans got tight or I needed a little mental boost. I suppose I was a runner, but I didn’t really call myself one.
Then Shoo was born. I hit the road as soon as I could. Then I ran my first race. Then I trained for and ran my first marathon. And more races. And running 5 days a week and double digit runs became my norm. And I ran another marathon. Running became a necessary part of my life.
I had become a runner. And it was a title I wore proudly.
I’ve been fighting injury for nearly a year now. For the first time in four years, I may not hit 1000 miles for the year. My race participation is down. I have run exactly one mile in September so far. I keep thinking I’m healed, but I keep having issues. Last night, Beer Geek (who is not the type to run to the dr.) actually suggested I might need to get help.
But, I’m a runner who’s lost her run. I refuse to believe that it won’t come back to me.