Yesterday, my husband Bruce challenged me to a 1-mile race this coming weekend. Bruce has a completely crushed meniscus in one knee that prevents him from running, but he might be able to last for a mile. Me? I've been slacking big time. Since nasal surgery back at the end of March, I have had a chronic cough that makes it hard to breathe when I run, and if I try to run more than 3 miles, some nagging injury crops up. So I've been doing threesies for the past few months, maybe 2 or 3 times a week. I was starting to think I would never race again, and I'm okay with that. I'm 63 years old, after all.
You might think I would have an easy time racing a non-runner, but Bruce is no ordinary man (and I would say that even if he weren't my husband, I swear I would!). Bruce is 6'2" tall, and most of his height is in his legs, which are superhero long. And he works out on a NordicTrak every single morning for 50 minutes, so the muscles in his legs are like he's a professional tennis player or something.
I don't know if he has issued this challenge to renew my enthusiasm for running, or if he just thinks it might be fun. We play board games and cards, and he hates losing, so I think he plans to win. And he probably will, because I have never been a sprinter. And I have already won at things I did not even realize were a competition until it was too late to lose, so I think I really should just let him win. Not sure I can actually do that. I'm pretty competitive too.
But my easy threesie pace has been around 11:00 mm, which is pathetically slow. It might not be slow for a newbie, but it is embarrassingly slow for me. And yet, I'm okay with that, because . . . whatever, at least I'm running a little.
I think even if I lose, I win. Stay tuned . . .