I used to say I’d only run if something was chasing me.
I've never been compelled to train for a distance event. I’m not an early riser who hits the Manitou Incline before breakfast.
Instead, my husband and I take leisurely three-hour hikes where we observe nature, eat snacks, and admire those headed back from a summit that we, quite happily, may never see.
That's all not to say I haven’t tried to run. I’ve joined runner friends for a casual jog at least a dozen times. And in seventh grade, my misguided attempts at inclusion found me joining the cross-country team in a laughable series of withering withdrawals from daily practice. At least I found out I could run steadily for seven minutes before my lungs would scream for mercy. For better or worse, I’ve given up running as many times as I’ve started running.
Imagine my surprise, then, when one day at the Garden of the Gods I suddenly felt the urge to pick up the pace. I could think of no logical reason and felt no sense of immediate danger. My body just wanted more.