On Sunday, regardless of my cold and the 25-degree weather when I left my house, I headed out to my 5k race first thing in the morning.
I’ve done a lot of running since my last road race in September—which was the 8K in which I placed 621st out of 627—so I was looking forward to vastly improving my pace.
My goal this time was to do the 5K in 40 minutes, which isn’t fast, by any means, but is respectable. At least for me. (My standards of respectability are a little different in a lot of areas, including running paces.)
Even though I was sick, this race was fun. You guys, I passed people. I mean, sure, they were children. And walkers. And one or two people running in the opposite direction. But I passed them! I even passed some runners. It was AWESOME.
And I didn’t even feel bad when they passed me right back a little bit later.
They course was kind of hilly, but none of the slopes were too long. Regardless, by mile two I was running holding tissues, sneezing, and feeling sad for myself. All that went away at mile 2.5, however, when I ran down a longish, steepish downhill. Some people were walking down it or running slowly and I blew past them.
I was all, “Gravity, bitches! Get some!” This is where being chubby comes in handy.
Remember my 40 minute goal? Well. I finished in 40 minutes. AND TWO SECONDS. I’m so mad.
But I’m more proud of me. A year ago I couldn’t have run a 5K in an hour. I couldn’t have run more than a couple of minutes. Progress, people. Progress. I am awesome.