What's a clpreg?

Shortly after moving to Brooklyn, one of my best friends, Carren, came over for dinner. At the time, she was just about to run her first race – a 10k in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. She’d never been a runner, always despising it and wondering who these crazy people were who loved it. They must be kidding themselves. No one really loves running.

Turns out, in just a few months, we’d be among those crazy people. Singing out loud on 10+ mile runs on Saturday mornings, in a voice reminiscent of Buddy the Elf, “WE LOVE RUNNING!”

That October evening, while we sat with glasses of red wine in hand, as they often are with Carren and I, she casually mentioned that she was thinking about training for a half marathon. From out of no where, I piped in with a “Hey, I’d train with you. I’ve always kind of wanted to do a marathon.”

Umm, what?

I’m not really sure where that came from. I mean, sure I’ve thought about it. These sort of things are easy to think about. You see pictures and status updates on Facebook from friends who ran a marathon. You think to yourself, wow that’s cool. Maybe I’ll do that someday.

Someday. But did I really want to do that now? To stick to a schedule that included spending my weekends running? After all, I just moved here. I had so many New Yorky things I should be doing!

Before I knew it, we had a training schedule picked out. We registered for the ING Miami Half Marathon. We bought plane tickets. And we started running.

I hadn’t run in about a year when we started, but I was surprised how quickly it came back. It’s an incredible thing, to see your strength and endurance change so drastically in just a couple of months. But, even after two months of running 4 times a week and completing my first 10+ mile runs, I still didn’t feel like a runner. I’d often look back at the training schedule, at all the days I crossed off in red, and I was proud of myself. But, just because I did it didn’t mean that I was a runner.

One morning it hit me.

My alarm went off at 5:30 am. I paused for just a second, listening to the wind howling and the rain coming down outside my window. I hopped out of bed, threw on my running gear and was out the door. I only paused one more time before stepping outside into the rain, thinking I must be crazy. Then, I started running.

It was dark. It was pouring rain. The wind was blowing. A dozen times I stepped in puddles over my ankles. I laughed out loud every time.

That morning run in the monsoon (only a slight exaggeration, I assure you) was the most fun I’ve ever had running. I smiled the entire time. I laughed. It was silly and weird. What was I doing out there? I’d officially gone off the deep end.

Six miles later, I was back in my apartment – still laughing – and dripping wet.

I am a runner.

I love getting up early and running before work (though I will admit, I loved it more when it was four miles and not six).

I love spending Saturdays with Carren, pushing ourselves on our long runs. First they were just six miles, then before we knew it, we were running 10,11, and 12 miles.

For our last two long runs, we abandoned Prospect Park and got a little adventurous – running across the Brooklyn Bridge and along the river in Manhattan to see how far we would get. Last weekend was our longest run, 12 miles, and we ran from Brooklyn to 125th Street. That’s Harlem for anyone who’s counting.

Then, we took the subway home.

This is probably the most dedicated I’ve ever been to something, certainly in the realm of athletics. I’ve only missed two runs (both the week I was sick with the flu) and just a few strength training days. I ran on Christmas morning before opening presents. I was the only one in the gym on New Year’s Day. I’ve gotten up early, stayed in on Friday nights, complained, popped blisters, expressed hatred at the idea of running, grumbled about the weather, contemplated skipping runs and whined about sore muscles. But, I’ve done it.

And in one week, I’ll be sitting in Miami anxiously awaiting my race the next morning. My first half marathon.