Running

I've never been a runner. In high school I was on the cross country team, but that was mostly an excuse to avoid taking the hour-long bus ride home. I would train, sporadically, and enjoy the race days like field trips, never that concerned with the results.

This summer, for some strange reason, I started lacing up. A friend encouraged me to get moving, to help cope with stress and, hopefully, build up an appetite.

At first, I was running away from things. I found if I ran long enough, my head would start to clear, and all those jumbled thoughts would disappear, at least momentarily. All that would matter was getting up that next hill, around that next corner, then finally home - wherever home was that week.

Deciding to do a half marathon was still terrifying. By the end of the summer, I was comfortable with my half-hour to an hour runs, easy 5 to 10Ks, but 21 kilometres still felt seriously daunting. Toss in a move to night shifts, and, well, training took a backseat.

But I kept at it, as best as I could. And soon, I wasn't running away from things anymore, but rather towards new ones, or just for the simple joy of running itself.

Long runs became a time to think - I could obsessively analyze my life, plan out my wardrobe for the week, or just try to clear my mind. Some days, I even looked forward to pounding the pavement or the treadmill.

As race day approached, life spiraled a little out of control. Nursing a ball hockey injury, falling down stairs while ripping out carpet, and the emotional task of seeing my bunny Allistair settle into his new - very happy - home, all made me wonder if I was strong enough to do it. It became a mental game, and I just wasn't sure if I was in it.

Thankfully, I didn't drop out. On race day, fuelled with a cookie and a banana, I headed up to the startline as the sun was rising and thought, "You know what? I can totally do this." And I did.

The first few kilometres, dodging people who were already walking and trying to weave through the crowd, were a bit messy. The middle ones, though, were lovely. The weather was great, the people lined up along the route were enthusiastic, and the run felt good on my already rather sore legs. By the 18th kilometre, I was already thinking about "next time."

And, of course, crossing the finish line felt like a major victory. I felt exhausted, and hungry, but also empowered, strong and healthy. Like I could do anything.

I'm not sure yet whether there will be another distance race - though I'm definitely talking about it with friends - but I've already agreed to a 10K in the spring. And for now, I'm just lacing up for the fun of it.