There’s something hard about starting again.
I’m not a natural runner. I don’t come from a family of athletes. I’m not even sure my body was built for it.
Yet, at 16, I started to run.
I was slow. It was hard. I hated it.
But I stuck with it. Part of it was for the athleticism. Mostly, though, it was the easiest, most convenient, and cheapest way to get in shape.
No getting to the gym. No having to bring my stuff from here to there. No fancy equipment. I just woke up, laced up, and went.
Over time, I built endurance. I even built speed. My fastest kilometer—on a downhill—was just under 5 min/km. 4:56 if I remember correctly. And I was so proud. I had finally broken 5.
I even had a dream once where I ran sub-4. What a feeling, looking at your watch and seeing a 3-minute kilometer.
The most I ever logged in a month was 160 km. I finally felt like I had truly become a runner.
Then life happened. Some ebbs and flows. Freezing winters. Forest fires and smog.
I broke my stride.
I know it’s not an excuse—and I’m not one for excuses. I know the power of showing up when things get tough and pushing through. But the fact is, I stopped running for a while.
I’d pick it back up here and there. A few months over the summer. While traveling somewhere warm. But year after year, my speed slowly dwindled.
Before I knew it, I was back at 8:30/km. And I’m starting all over again.
My fastest kilometer might be behind me. But I’ve achieved it. And I’m working my way back.
In the meantime, I’ll just enjoy the process. Again.