I mentioned that my DH challenged me to a one-mile race at the high school track this past Saturday. I was not excited. The track and athletic fields are locked up, and although it is a simple matter to go around the 20 foot chain link fence, it feels a lot like trespassing. And that is to go run on a track, which takes all the joy out of running (at least for me), not much better than a treadmill. Then there is the whole flashback to high school gym classes, where I was anything but athletic. And for what? To run a mile? One mile? Let's be clear, the first mile of almost any run sucks. And what is the point of getting all sweaty if you are only running a single mile? I have never, ever been a sprinter. Mile repeats are the worst. And then there is the whole racing thing, from which I have taken a break. I have not done any speedwork in at least a year, in hopes of avoiding injury (there has been a constant parade of injuries the past two years) and finding more joy in running. And racing the DH? Even if I win, I lose. So Saturday morning came and I tried to be a good sport, but if sulking were an Olympic event, I would have won a medal, for sure.
I understood what the DH wanted. He felt the track would be kinder to his crushed meniscus. The most he could hope to run was a single mile. And somehow, he thought it would be fun (FUN????) to race me.
So Saturday morning, I put on my best racing gear, and we drove to the high school. We walked around the chain link fence, across the athletic fields, and as we approached the track, we saw that it was set up for a track meet, with hurdles and registration, and adorable high school runners warming up. We drove home, not sweaty. DH was disappointed.
It was probably wrong how great I felt.