I was not born to run. At least, if I was, I have yet to discover my inborn love for running. And if any of my recent success can be attributed to natural talent, then it sure took a lot of work to coax said talent out.
As evidence to support the case that I Am Not (Really) a Runner, I cited the fact that I don’t read running books. Well, my argument has just become weaker.
After I mentioned barefoot running on this blog a few months ago, several people recommended that I read Born to Run. And then more people recommended it. So after deciding to run a 50-miler, I figured it was time. On Thursday night I ran out to Barnes and Noble and picked up a copy to read on a trip to Florida this weekend.
In short, I have not been able to put it down. In two days I’ve read 160 pages of it. To me, the fact that this book flew under my radar for so long is just another clue that I really wasn’t a runner. But reading it, I sure feel like one.
Never have I itched to run the way I have this weekend. As soon as we arrived at the hotel, I hit the treadmill in the gym for a quick three miles, the first since my marathon on Sunday, even pushing the last mile to 6:20 pace. And after a quick morning run yesterday with Erin, it was all I could do not to head out for another after an hour of reading the book got me all fired up again. I didn’t do it, thinking it would be better not to push it so soon after my marathon, but I was close.
Something has awoken in me this weekend. Whether it’s the book that’s done it or the satisfaction of my Boston qualifier setting in, I don’t know. How long it will last, I have no idea either. But for the time being at least, I can’t wait to get out on the trail and put in some miles, and possibly even — gasp! — enjoy running. And to me, this is new.