"25," was his confident and proud answer.
"Holy shit!" was my very eloquent response.
25.
Twenty.
Five.
How does that even work?!
If I ran two marathons a year from this point forward, I would be 45 years old by the time I reached that goal.
45.
Forty.
Five.
How does that even work?!
Then, I looked at our mentor again and figured . . . yeah, he could be early/mid forties (I'm a horrible judge of age, by the way). He doesn't have muscles bulging from a tight shirt. He's not loaded down with gadgets and gear. He's running in baggy shorts and a t-shirt, some shoes that look like their fastest miles are behind them and a funky ball cap.
As many people are, I am totally intimidated by the marathon. It's because I picture marathon runners with tight tummies and muscular legs, long strides and the newest and spiffiest running shoes. I picture the cover of Runner's World.
Uh, that's not me. I'm more Runners With Chub Rub and a Wicked Penchant for Cheese Sauce World.
This dissonance has kept from being really excited about completing a marathon, even doubtful that I could do it. I'm certain that magic is the only thing getting my ass to 26.2. However, running with the Leggers has been a huge help in starting to see myself as a marathon finisher. Some of these people have completed multiple marathons and their bellies and thighs wobble just like mine. The reason I couldn't picture myself as a finisher was because I wasn't picturing me. I was picturing some weird collage of body parts--preferably, toned and barely glistening with sweat--crossing the finish line. That's just not reality (so much more sweaty!), and a marathon is going to make some things really real, really quickly.
Must maintain MY marathon realness.
This is Alice B.'s marathon realness.
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