One Foot in Front of the Other

The first week of May, I spotted this post on Facebook...

I hadn't run in a long while, but I’d been thinking of running for weeks. Of course, thinking and doing are not the same. I prepared, even though preparing to run is wholly unnecessary. The reality of what I was doing can best be described as procrastinating. When I saw the above post on Facebook, I thought, “Ah ha! This is what I’ve been waiting for!” I enthusiastically signed up. 

The day of the first run, I was a bit less enthused. What if I were the oldest? The fattest? The slowest? Whatifwhatifwhatif

I pressed on - the temperature was 86 that evening but the humidity a mild 49%. 

Over a dozen of us showed up, and one woman said, “I was sitting in my car, thinking about just going back home.”

“Same! But I told myself I was already here, and I could order sushi after the run. It would be waiting for me on my porch when I got home,” another woman replied.

When I recounted this story to Andrea, she said, “These are your people.”

I was not the oldest.

I wasn't the fattest.

I wasn’t the slowest.

And if I were any of those things, who cares? I doubt any of the others - some who had never run before or others, like me, who hadn't run in a long while. We all put one foot in front of the other and ran to Noah, who stood sentinel at the halfway point where we were to turn around.

I did not use any app that told me when to run and when to walk. I didn't listen to music. I listened to my body and alternately ran and walked. 

On Saturday, when it was time to do the 2nd workout solo, I procrastinated so long that I could have run an entire 5k. But I got out there and did it - it was easier the 2nd time, mainly because it was flat. I thought I’d be slower without the group, but I shaved some time off. It would have taken less time if I’d successfully stopped my watch on the first try. I'd bought a Garmin I didn't need - and told myself a story about how I wanted a watch without notifications - a story I’d tried to pass off to Andrea, who said, “You can turn those off.”

Really - my grief-addled brain convinced me it was a great idea. After all, John had one, and look at his heart rate! This is what I come back to time and time again: How can John be dead when his heart rate was 55 bpm when we were on a walk together?

One foot in front of the other.