I still don’t call myself a “runner” and definitely not a “marathoner”. Yeah, I ran 45 miles last week and will be running my second marathon…but me a “runner”? Nope. I’ve mentioned a Facebook Woman’s Running Group I’m a part of before…those woman are runners. They love running. They go crazy if they can’t run. It’s what they look forward to every day.
I am not that person. I predict after this marathon I take off another 5-6 months of running like I did after last marathon. And I’ll probably not miss it. Until I do, sign up for another race, and start running again.
But for these past few months of running and training, I’ve had a coach. Someone that tells me exactly what I’ll be doing every day in terms of training. Someone who holds me accountable. I have much more specific work outs than “10 miles Wednesday, 5 miles Thursday.” There and long slow distance runs of course, but there are tempo runs, and negative splits runs, and sprint workouts, and recovery runs. And I have this stupid little watch that tracks every second and shares it with her. I have numbers to hit! And I have never run so many miles, been so dedicated to following a schedule, or enjoyed running as much.
So even though I’m not a REAL runner….I feel I’ve been pretending to be one pretty well. And with that…I feel as pretend Runner Lauren, I have some apologies to make on behalf of Lauren, the Runner.
I’m sorry I have a big stupid Garmin that I am constantly looking at whilst running. Even on slow days. On slow days I’m looking to make sure I’m going slow enough. They’re not just for sprints and fast people.
I’m sorry I get impatient at red lights and either a) prance around in one spot b) look grumpy with my hands on my hips or c) get over eager and step off the kerb before it’s my time and nearly die.
I’m sorry that non REAL runner Lauren always complained about people who don’t smile at her when she crossed paths. Now that I’m REAL runner Lauren, I understand how painful the 6th mile of negative splits into the wind are and that it takes all of my focus not to quit and I actually can not be bothered to pay you mind or use the limited amount of energy I have to move my lips into a smile or acknowledgement of our crossing paths.
I’m sorry to kinda-sorta totally contradict myself in saying that…I’m sorry if you saw me flicking people off if I run. Sometimes it’s a really nice morning, and we’re just out for leisurely jogs, and you look right at me and I say “good morning” or “hello” or “smile” and then you ignore me….and after we pass I kinda sorta flick you off in jest.
I’m sorry for the racist thoughts I had about your dog breed. I didn’t think I had it in me. But when your massive pitbull came lunging at me and you were calling after it for the first time I thought it was gonna end in my blood shed. I never think that when a border collie comes lunging…I’ll work on that.
I’m sorry for not hearing your approach. I never have headphones on in my small country roads where cars could be approaching. But on the carless trails with 15+ miles to run, I need music. Or podcast. Or sometimes just my very own deep thoughts to amuse myself and I don’t always notice/register/realize you’re around the corner and I’m about to run flat into your horse’s face or that you’re about to zip past me on your bike. Most times the conclusion is I get a fright…but sometimes, the conclusion is an uncomfortable meeting of objects.
I’m sorry I talk about running so much. Do you think I actually want to? I swear, I don’t. But it’s all my tiny brain can think about a lot of the time. Have to say, pretty proud that I haven’t turned this in a running blog during this training cycle.
I’m sorry I complain about something I voluntarily do. But you do too. No one forced you to have kids/stop eating bread/go over budget.
I’m sorry I’m gonna eat a lot. Until I feel full. Which is never lately.
I’m sorry I belch. It’s not lady-like and I’m sure it’s gross to see and hear and possibly even smell? But there’s a lot of sloshing. I have to consume fuel when partaking in stupid physical activities for hours on end and sometimes my stomach’s not too pleased to process it in a timely fashion.
I’m sorry about the tissues. I have chronic runny nose when my heart rate is elevated. And I snot rocket. I’m more sorry if you get hit by a rocket. I have to do both…snot rocket to maintain the status of my chronic runny nose, and every 3 miles or so I blow my nose for a full clean out. I’m sorry its gross. I’m sorry sometimes my tissues disenigrate and I sorta-not-on-purpose litter.
I’m sorry I look like a d-bag in my Oakleys. I am aware how I look. I am aware that with some extreme sporty sunglasses you would anticipate me to be faster. But the truth is, I am not going to run in my Gucci sunglasses. These sunglasses stay put on my face or atop my head. There’s no slippage, they don’t touch a lot of places on my face so there’s no chaffing or rubbing. I am sacrificing my appearance for functionality. Trust me, I’d rather be in my stylish sunnies.
I’m sorry I haven’t put on a real bra or pants in days. I just can’t be bothered when I know I have to change into running stuff anyway.
I’m sorry I haven’t washed my hair. It’s just gonna get sweaty and gross again….
I’m sorry I’m not Super Fun Wild Lauren. Runner Lauren and Super Fun Wild Laure live on different universes. They both can’t be at the same place at the same time. But I will be your sober driver.
I’m sorry that all I’ve done is complain about running but now that I’m tapering and running less, I’m complaining even more!
I’m sorry you think because I’m running slow it would be acceptable for me to stop and clear the way for your massive stroller/suv/horse. It’s an aerobic run. And it’s 16 miles. I’ll move over a little, and you move over a little. We can make it work. Share the road or go to hell.
I’m sorry if I’ve pretty much told you to go hell because you and your 2 friends, with your 3 combined strollers, handful of toddlers on bikes and scooters, and dogs don’t feel the need to make any effort to move in the slightest bit to let someone else. It’s common courtesy ass hat.