Torn meniscus, torn gastroc. Broken ribs. Broken metatarsal, repeatedly sprained ankles.
Two miscarriages. Too many questions. No answers, none at all, and here's the situation: I have to train for a triathlon. It may be a small one, but I still have to be prepared, I have to be able to do this.
Ten minutes. That's all I'm asking of myself today. Ten minutes of moving, of Indian jogging, 50 paces walking, 50 paces running, alternating for ten minutes.
I ate too much of the wrong things today, and as wonderful as some of the "event" of it was, some of it was really hard, too.
The question as I rode home from the celebratory reunion with all its inherent joy and pain was "will I really do it?"
It got mentioned how crazily windy it was, my parents recommended "no." But I made a promise...
I got home, stripped off the shoes and the nice clothes, grabbed my sweats and my brand-new sneakers. Found my cycling jacket that's great for strong and nasty winds, layered a sweat-jacket under it.
Running compatriot took a look, changed, too. I stretched, tucked my keys and my phone in a pocket, secured them under my jacket.
And...out! Runner #2 glanced at me as we walked to a spot in the park and said, "I don't think I'll last two minutes."
"Sure you will," I said. "Hope I do, too."
Got to my starting spot, set my watch. And on the countdown, the question became: Can I even do two minutes?
I ran. I walked. I shifted from 50 steps running, 50 steps walking, to 60 steps running, 50 steps walking; I ended on a run, then race-walked to cool down.
I did ten and a half minutes before that. The other was equally successful.
Today I conquered obstacle one: inertia. I can do this. I can do anything. I am a bad-ass mother fucker, and I've got the now-broken-in sneakers to prove it.
Rockin'!
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