On My Mark

It happened again. Just like last year. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, since I asked for it, after all, but the ten kilometers that stretched out in front of me seemed particularly daunting on this cold November morning. How many years have I been doing this to myself? How many more years will I allow it to continue? These were the questions in my head at the starting line. My more sane and supportive family members moved to the left where the seemingly more relaxed five kilometer course looked like a walk in the park which, as it turns out, it is.
I thought about wandering over across that line. I could spend the morning as I do on so very many weekends, exercising with my family. My son pushing up ahead, and then waiting for us to catch up. Dragging my wife, now so much a part of the Zumba crowd, to run just a little bit more. We could all finish together, and I would feel so much fresher, having bypassed that whole second half of the race. The aches and pains would be minimized and the rest of the day could include physical activity outside of lurching into the bathroom to swallow another couple ibuprofen. It would be so easy.
But that's not what I signed up for. I signed up for the big one. The one with two hills and six miles that feel a whole lot like six miles after you've run them. It is the mild goal that I set myself at the beginning of each year. I won't finish first, but at least let me not collapse in the attempt. The rest of the year I train. Today I'm here to push myself. I'm here once again, to prove to myself that I can, in fact, run for an hour or so and then pick up a bunch of bottles of water and a bag full of energy bars before heading back home to savor my accomplishment. And those ibuprofen. See you next year on the starting line.