Some days I’m signing up for a half-marathon on whim — as in, yes, two days before race day without any prior planning or thoughts to run it.
And, some other days I’m trotting along at nearly 10 min/mile pace and stop.
And momentarily “give up.”
I’m never one to walk during my runs. I never feel the need to, or the want to.
Yesterday was different.
Yesterday was that “other day.”
I had the most severe stomach pain come over me. I couldn’t run anymore. I sat down on the front steps of someone’s house, hoping the owner would not come home to find me in a helpless disarray.
I felt broken.
After about 10 minutes of crouched-over sitting, I decided to get up.
I slowly made my way home. And, by slowly I mean walking.
I couldn’t even jog.
I felt defeated.
A runner whizzed by me.
This must be that “walk of shame” that some college kids experience the morning after late-night parties, I thought to myself.
I didn’t want to stay on the main road anymore because I didn’t want anyone to see me walking in my running clothes and shoes. I didn’t care that they were probably all strangers. I wanted to hide.
So, I took side streets and back roads.
Although close to home and near my regular running route, I never took these streets before. I saw newly built houses with “interesting” architecture. I found a community garden with flower beds and vegetable gardens. I walked by cute cats.
Maybe there was some good in this walk?
Walking isn’t bad.
But, for this runner, it just felt bad at the time.