Okay. I have saggy knees. I didn’t think it would happen but it has.
I don’t usually run in front of a mirror at a gym, watching my clearly not so perfect form. Here, in Maine, my treadmill is in front of a window. I can see my reflection. It’s a little disturbing.
I’m training for a 10k run. Which sounds so much more butch than 6.5 miles. Or course, when I was being talked into it, it was only 6.5 miles. I can run 6.5 miles I said with confidence.
Why the hell am I running a race at 43 with saggy knees?
I know a woman who can swim, in the ocean, for miles. She is about a hundred years older than me. I watched her one-day glide through some serious chop in the water. I was and am impressed.
If she can do that at her age, I can run a race.
I can do 6.5 miles. I went to the beach the other day to run. I’m feeling pretty good jogging, no huffing and puffing. Smooth. I can do this, I think confidently.
And then a woman, clearly many years older than me, passes me. Easily. She’s not huffing or puffing either.
Why am I running a race? I asked Heidi, a much younger friend who has been dragged into this race business, why don’t we just sign up, get the free tee shirt and then wave from the sidelines? We won’t have to wear three sports bras to wave. One will do. (This is another reality of running at 43 with a very large chest. Layers of sports bras.) And twelve year olds and sixty year olds won’t be passing us by.
She offered a training schedule downloaded off the net.
I’m running a race- 10k, thank you. Saggy knees and all.