I am not a runner

I was never a distance runner as a kid. In elementary school, I always dreaded the twice-yearly 1-mile run – the fire in my lungs, the need to pace myself, the competition of seeing some of my more athletic peers finishing in 6 or 7 minutes.  How could 8.5 minutes feel so long?  While I loved to sprint in a game of capture the flag or when racing my friends across the field, I didn’t understand how anyone would be able to, let alone want to, run for many minutes at a time. 

I’ve gotten used to these start-lines. I still arrive several minutes too early – there is nothing in the pre-race briefing I haven’t heard before. I creep into the dark park, away from the excitement of the start line, holding onto the calm, cool morning as I steel myself for the journey to come. With a couple of minutes to go, I slot myself in a few rows behind the front line.