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?
For twentyone years, at least twentyfour hours a day.