I got the email that said “Congratulations.”

I started to run, I was rusty (at best) and delusional (daily) and I laid down miles.

Between my highest ever non-pregnant weight (May) (which was only 15 lbs away from my highest pregnant weight) and a few days ago there is a difference of nearly 20 lbs.

I get up between 5a and 5:15 four days a week to run in the dark.  In the rain.  In the (f*cking) fog. I finally understand why so many people hate treadmills.  When I noticed how much I slouched when I got tired I added Tania’s Shred class on Tuesdays so my arms weren’t exclusively decorative.

Everything below my ribs hurts most of the time, but not in an injury sort of way.  My left foot worries me.  My right foot is the bane of my existence and my trusted companion.

I have come to terms with not being a beautiful runner and that has made me love the beautiful ones even more.  There are people in town who recognize me solely because Saturday mornings I lay miles down.  In the heat.  In the sun.  On game days.

Somewhere around 300 rehearsal miles.  I’ve tagged my 50 miles months (there are two now) and will tag my first half marathon and my third 50 mile month on Sunday.

My husband has the support plan for this weekend laid out around him.  On paper the things so similar to what I did for his first half, his second, his first full.  What our family looks like when we run.  I put miles down, we all celebrate what we can do together.  The next weekend will be his – but simpler in many ways.

My plan is a race series of two halves and a full over 53 weeks.  I have the chance to add some fun runs in that support the cause.  When the email said, “Congratulations.” I panicked but in the end this journey has been just what I needed.

I doubt I’ll miss a Tuesday with Tania.  I don’t like taper and expect that recovery will be even less fun.  I’m afraid.  I’m excited.  I don’t want to stop.  I want to run.  Runners run.