Going the Distance

I've been running--and blogging about running, and whining about running--for about two-and-a-half years now. Amazing, that.

It was January 2010 when G. the Meanie made me do a mile-and-a-half without stopping, the first time in my life I'd run that far. I was 31 years old. What came out of that was the World's Most Reluctant Runner, knowing that I needed to run to continue losing weight and getting in better shape, but also hating every moment of pain, every struggle to keep moving.

Something finally clicked about six months ago, when, on Christmas Eve morning, I burst through the wall at last, and started to find that I could really do this. Instead of running three 10-minute intervals, I could run thirty minutes without stopping. From there, a new confidence emerged. I started running 5Ks. And one morning, I was running along the mean streets of Lincoln and I realized I was...smiling? Yes, that was definitely a grin on my face. Shocking.

I'm finally at a point where I run because it brings me peace and joy. I don't always feel like running; there are days I have to force myself out the door. However, I never regret a run. Even a run with shin splints or cramping--because getting out there and just doing it, even if I have to stop early to minimize the risk of an injury, means I've done more than I would have had I stayed tied to my computer.

I've recently joined a running club, and I'm enjoying getting to know the other runners in the group. Most of them are marathoners, and they have already begun joking that while right now I'm a 5K kind of girl, I should get the bug. And here's the thing...I really don't see it happening.

It's not that I don't think I could do it.

I simply don't want to.

From what I see and read about marathon training, it involves a lot more than I want to give to my running. Ice baths, increased risk of injury and wear on the body from running greater distances. I've seen videos of people literally crawling across the finish line, their wearied bodies completely shot from running 26.2 miles.

If that's a person's passion, I'm not going to judge; it simply is not what I want for myself. Obviously, my sights are set more on the triathlon course these days (which, let's face it, is also kind of crazy and extreme in its own way).

But I get this sense sometimes that people who "go the distance" kind of think less of those of us who don't--not openly. I've met some wonderful marathon runners through my new club and Twitter who encourage and respect my choice to keep the running shorter. But sometimes there's this feeling--and maybe I'm just imagining it--that they feel the best runners go long.

And I've actually seen comments on Twitter from distance runners, basically stating that in their eyes, you run marathons or you're just pretending to be a runner. I resent that. Because five or six days a week--every week--I get out there and push myself. I'm not fast. I don't go great distances. But I push, and I sweat, and I feel the joys and the lows that come with being a committed runner just as much as anyone else. I am just as much of a runner as someone who finishes Boston in under two hours.

I don't feel like I have to justify this; I'm writing this post simply to vent some frustration I've felt a time or two. I laugh when my running blogs are featured by marathon newsletters on Twitter--I'm certainly very flattered that they enjoy my posts enough to share them with other runners, but I am also baffled because nothing about my running career comes remotely close to doing a marathon. I don't even run a marathon distance in one week; I generally average 10 miles, though I'm working my way up to 12.

I'll leave the marathons to the people who love them; as for me, you're likely to find me running the streets of my neighborhood with a silly grin on my face, listening to my iPod and feeling a great sense of accomplishment after two-and-a-half miles. For someone who couldn't run a whole mile, even in high school, that's a big deal.