I’ve started running again.

Let’s be clear, I use the word “run” very, very generously. It’s kind of a bouncy limp, only marginally faster than actual walking, yet somehow a whole lot harder. But since that is kind of awkward to say, I’ll just say “run” and you can insert your own mental picture.

I was off and on with Couch to 5K for the summer and into the early fall, and ran in a race a few weeks ago. While I am proud that I did not walk (with a nasty head cold, no less), it was an absolutely pitiful finish.  41 minutes to travel three miles. 13-minute miles. A full minute-per-mile slower than the race I did a year and a half ago, and let’s not forget that, for that race, my right calf was so jacked up I could barely walk and ended up in months of physical therapy.

But I did it. Dammit, I did it.  Every step of the way, I repeat my mantra: it does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop.  If the internet is to be believed, that’s Confucius, but even if that’s a big fat lie, it’s still my mantra. It’s what I have to keep telling myself as I slowly bob along.

I’m trying not to get discouraged. I’m trying to let go of being frustrated at how damn hard it is for me to run a mile in less than 13 pathetic minutes. I’m trying not to be ashamed of that.  I’m trying to just accept that fitness and weight management (ha!) is something I will ALWAYS have to work on. Sometimes I’ll be in a better groove than others, but it will never come easily or naturally. There won’t be a magic fix, I’m not going to finally hit on that one winning strategy that will stick forever and end my struggle.  It will always be hard, it will always require attention and purpose. I will work hard to get good habits going, and then slowly or spectacularly, I will fall off the wagon and have to find my way back.  That’s just how it goes for me.

So here I am, trying. Again.

After my friends and I huffed and puffed through that 5K, before my face had even come down from its beet-red state, we decided to sign up for another race together. Five miles, Thanksgiving morning. Two miles farther than the three that just felt like it might kill me.

It seems a little insane by my standards, but here I am, on week three of an 8K training program.  I have learned there are a few good strategies to try to keep myself on track: a deadline (no changing the date of the race that I’ve already registered and paid for!), a clear plan (this program has something scheduled six out of seven days), and peer pressure/public commitment (I’ve told everyone I’m doing this race, and have recruited others to sign up, too).  The only thing missing is making an actual bet with someone for a substantial amount of cash.  Laugh if you want, but my intrinsic motivation is pretty low at the moment. I need something external to kick my ass out onto the pavement.

It hasn’t become a good routine yet, something I can do on auto-pilot. Every day, I’m grasping at how and when to get the workout done, between preschool and naps and doctor’s appointments. But as much as I possibly can, I’m getting it done. I don’t want to collapse on Thanksgiving morning, after all.

I’ve even gotten the big kids involved. They love the idea of running a race, like Mommy. Which pretty much makes all of the sore muscles and over-exertion headaches worth it. Because really, me? Being the example for physical fitness? Wow.  Sure, they ask if I am going to win the race. I try not to laugh as I assure them that I am definitely not going to win, just that I am running for (ahem) fun and to be (ahem) strong and healthy.  So, on Thanksgiving, they’ll suit up with me, pin a bib to their bellies, and run that 100-yard dash for the four-year-olds. And I will be so proud of them.

And, hopefully, I’ll be proud of me, too.

It won’t be fast. It won’t be pretty. But dammit, I am going to finish that race.