Page 25 of Get Me to the Starting Line

Start slow (no problem there) and don’t rush

Ask for help or hire a coach

It’s the last one that stings. The other tidbits she gives about gear and clothes, watches, and electrolytes are all things I can look up later, when I’m ready to start officially training for the half marathon.

And that is something I never thought I’d say in my entire life.

Holy shit. Reality slaps me in the face as I walk out with my new shoes.

I’m going to have to train for a half marathon.

Ilovemynewshoes. I’ve been walking around in them for two days. They are hot-pink Nikes, and they cost me an arm and a leg. Whoever said running was a cheap sport was a liar. Because not only do I have these outrageously expensive yet comfortable and springy shoes, I also came home with bags of new leggings, sports bras, tank tops, special moisture-wicking socks, chafing sticks that look like deodorant, and hair ties.

The saleswoman should send me some of her bonus after how much money I dropped today.

Not that all of it was necessary—I probably could have just purchased the shoes and made do—but felt I deserved it.

If I’m being honest, I feel pretty damn good. I look like a runner. Fake it till you make it, right?

I put on a pair of black spandex leggings. I wanted the brightly coloured ones, but apparently butt sweat can get terribly obvious for some runners. BUTT SWEAT.

Now, I grew up in Utah, I’m overly familiar with butt sweat ... but bad enough to rule out colourful pants?!

The saleswoman said I should stick with black for a while to see how much I sweat down there, and if I’m okay with looking like I peed my pants, then I can switch to colours.

Um, no thank you.

The pink top that matches my shoes compensates for my boring leggings. And as a bonus, the racerback is flattering—how have I not noticed how good my shoulder blades look? I use a band this time to push my short hair back and out of my eyes while I gawk at the mirror.

Damn.

Am I sexy? I don’t think I’ve really looked at myself lately. Not since Levi was born. And even before then, I had a hard time looking at my body—seeing the things I needed to cover so Ian would find me attractive. How the fuck did I let that happen?

I tell myself over and over again I am sexy, and I try to believe it. But half an hour later out on the paths, I am dying and no longer feel sexy.

This new path has so many fucking hills. Why are there so many hills? Pushing the stroller up what feels like a never-ending incline, I internally kick myself for changing routes.

Did Levi put on weight? Why is the stroller so damn heavy today?

I should’ve gone to my normal path, but I didn’t want to run into the giant. Plus, I skipped a day in case he runs every other day too, hoping we’ll be on alternating schedules.

The mental gymnastics I’m doing to avoid this guy should count for strength training.

Another problem with this route is there’s no view of the bay. I love running by the water because it’s distracting and I’m not surrounded by bugs and trees. I’m not comfortable enough yet torun through the city streets so I have to stick to the paths, but damn. Sometimes nature is too ... outside.

When I reach the top of the damn hill, I breathe a sigh of relief. More like heave a sigh of relief. It quickly vanishes, because coming up the other side is the giant in question.

Fucking hell.

I didn’t get a good look at him the other day. My attention was intentionally elsewhere seeing as I was trying extremely hard to not stare and not die at the same time. Multitasking is usually my thing, but not when it comes to sports.

He hasn’t noticed me yet and there’s no point in turning around—I’m not fast enough to run away. There’s a point in the pro column for running.

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