Not long ago, I determined to make a third attempt at a half marathon. Like most things Michelle, I started out gung-ho, balls-to-the-wall, or whatever you want to call it. Training killed me the first couple of weeks, but I powered through even though I spent nearly every work day pinching myself to keep from falling asleep at my desk.
I'm finishing the fourth week now, officially at the half-way point.
Honestly, all I want to do is quit.
It takes a supreme act of will to change into my running garb and scoot out the door or into the gym six days every week. I've been convincing myself that I don't care about the race any more. That I don't like running at all. That I'm not meant to be a runner.
But, this sunset.
This sunset changed my mind.
If I hadn't committed myself to this training program and told everyone and their mother about my participation, I can guarantee that yesterday night would've found my ass firmly planted on the couch.
I'd be watching Bones or Law & Order: SVU or something equally terrifying, guaranteeing a difficult bedtime hours later. Or, I'd be reading beautiful blogs that make me feel like a waste of space on this planet. I might even be reading Rolling Stone while burning a healthy dinner.
I sure as shit wouldn't be outside, dragging my bones across the pavement. I wouldn't log 2 miles with excitement for the moment I finished my "out and back" and had the opportunity to turn around and actually run into the sunset.
I swear, every day teaches me something.
I'm losing focus on crossing the finish line, but I'm learning that the reward of actually completing something doesn't always come in the anticipated ways. Opening my eyes to actually see a beautiful sunset is an accomplishment in and of itself.
It's only a bonus that I happened to be running while my tired eyes feasted.