Lately I’ve been feeling like I did during my freshman track season. It is not a good feeling. On the assurance that I would NOT actually have to run (“you can be a thrower!”), I joined the track team as an out-of-shape ninth grader with the hopes of scoring a cool track sweatshirt.
I did have to run. Three miserable laps around the track as a “warm up.” I couldn’t even make it once around with slowing to a walk. And I was a terrible thrower. I lived in daily fear of track practice. I couldn’t keep up with the slowest of the slow. It took me a good couple months before I could complete those three laps around the track. (Yes, I know. It’s not even a mile).
That summer something clicked, I could suddenly make it through three and then five mile runs. I joined the cross country team and have been a runner ever since. I’d taken pride in the fact that I could always, in an emergency, drop everything and run three or eight or thirteen miles if I had to.
I forgot what it’s like to desperately try to keep pace with someone. I forgot what it was like to attempt to keep your hard breathing under wraps so the person you are running with wouldn’t know how much you’re struggling. I forgot how embarrassing it is to have to stop and slow down…one mile into a run. I forgot how hard running can be.
When I got pregnant six months ago, I confidently assumed that I’d run all through my pregnancy. People do it all the time! Doctors say as long as you were already a runner, you were good to continue. I’d already planned on running a half marathon at five months pregnant and maybe even Grandma’s full marathon in Wisconsin the month after that.
That sooooo did not happen.
Running sucks when you are pregnant. I wasn’t even a month along when a friend and I went on a fast four mile run. I spend the next day curled up in bed with cramps, convinced that I had killed the baby. On the repeated assurance of my doctor and ten different pregnancy books I kept trying. I slogged through slow runs, wishing I could hold my boobs and belly while running (wouldn’t that have looked cool?) I managed a slow three miles a couple times a week, but I dreaded those runs like I used to dread track practice my freshman year. Last week I laced up my running shoes and headed out with the lofty goal of running two miles. I made it about five steps and decided that I was done running. I have officially given up.
I can still log miles on the elliptical. I can swim laps. I can lift weights at BodyPump, and I can walk, but those things just don’t have the same ring or allure. “Lifting Weights Through this World” is just not a cool title for a blog. So hopefully you lovely readers will forgive me for carrying on with a misleading title for the next three or four months. While you are all out running, I’ll be taking a nap.