Huh? How did I get here?


Even though I've been running since the birth of my fourth child, fifteen years ago, I still find it hard to think of myself as a real runner.

Aren't real runners lean and fast?

Because aren't runners those lean and mean people that run about in very small, wispy shorts with matching tops and a number pinned to their chest? And don't runners go really fast?

I don't match any of these criteria.

'I hate sports!' I tell friends who know me from way back when, and know my fondness for the couch. And to be sure I add: 'I think sports are stupid!'

And yet I run. For fifteen years, five days a week.

Being a runner is a lot like being a mom

It's a lot like being a mom. I've been a mom for twentyone years now, but I still often wonder:

'What lunatic left me in charge of five children and a whole household to run?!'

Because aren't mothers brisk competent women, full of confidence, who know what they're doing?

And yet I am a mother.

For twentyone years, at least twentyfour hours a day.


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