I looked down at my Apple Watch, the screen bouncing like I was unbuckled on an off-roading ATV. It took three glances to see the output: 2.14 miles.
The disappointment hung over me like Mr. T’s gold chains draped across his trunk of a neck.
I want running to be easy. To come easy to me. Like all things do. And when I have to work — when I see the gap between where I am and where I want to be — I see impossible.
Well, not impossible according to ChatGPT. Their estimate is that I could get there in 2-5 years.
In a moment of insanity, after seeing “Boston Marathon qualifier” on a local half-marathon site, my circular brown, deer-like eyes shapeshifted into cartoon stars with smiles dancing where my pupils used to be.
What in the heck kind of goal is that?
I’m just an average Jane. Or so I’ve been telling myself. Who am I to set my sights on the holy grail of grails — the Boston Marathon? That goal scares me. It feels like a panini press closing in on my jugular, and I want to say, “Okay, okay. I was just kidding.”
Didn’t I just listen to a podcast that said not to share your goals? That your brain doesn’t know the difference between the dopamine hit of talking about something and actually doing it? That when you say it out loud and get the oohs and ahhs, the incentive to follow through drops?
Only… I’m not sure that’s true for me.
My goal is to improve my times. To point myself somewhere. I’ll run the half-marathon in October. And over the next month, I’ll keep paying attention to what the road teaches me each day.
Today’s lesson: just because it’s hard, don’t stop.
The disappointment I felt earlier hit the brakes. Failure bloomed out of nowhere, like a popped bubble trying to re-form, and I rationalized that stopping and walking was the next logical step.
But my shaky wrist and the buffering screen wouldn’t cooperate. I couldn’t swipe correctly to hit the “Finish” button.
That tiny hiccup in technology felt like a pat on the back I didn’t know I needed.
Keep going.
I wonder if that’s related to those studies on athletes — how, when pain or exertion gets intense enough, the body releases calming, almost euphoric chemicals. If so, I’d like an annual subscription to that.
Because even though I struggled — slower than a slow jog — for the final kilometer, I did it.
I fucking did it.
The power I feel on a run is indescribable. The weakness, the poor-me voice, is loud too. I don’t want to do it.
And I so deeply do.
Lately, I’ve gotten good at tricking myself. I put the workout gear on first. There’s a casual shrug to pulling on the spandex and long-sleeved shirt. Next comes the Apple Watch, then finding my headphones. Then I’m choosing a playlist.
That part feels like a reward — being in my own little world.
By then, I’m lacing up my shoes and hitting the road.
Maybe I’ve fallen under a spell. Or into an addiction. Or maybe it’s just a habit now — one that’s paying me back in dividends.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 