I registered for the Race for the Cure the other day. September 29. I will once again drag my sorry self 3.1 miles while Jane keeps my mind off my misery. (She qualified as my best friend decades ago, but this running thing really has her title cemented.)
Today, in an effort to begin “training” for the Race, I walked over to the track near our house and forced myself to jog. It was basically high noon and I was jogging on a dusty cinder track. I did not enjoy it.
When I finally let myself stop (OK, I am really kind to myself when I am running–wouldn’t want to pull a muscle, you know), I stretched in the shade and thought about how little I like running. How what I really want is to have run.
And, of course, races are always analogous to life–I make my own comparisons that way–so I wondered if this is how I can be about life, sometimes. That I’m not so very focused on living simply because I want to have lived. Want to make it to the next birthday, graduation, milestone. I think so often about how long I’ll stay ahead of this disease that I lose sight of the fact that I’m ahead of it today. Today.
Today I ran a mile. I have run a mile. I did it. Today.
It was nice to have run it. But I think I’ll try to pay more attention while I’m doing it next time.
(This photo is from the Race 2006)