I spent most of the summer cursing the fact that I was a slow runner. This was a new fact, because when I was younger, I was a fast runner. I took a certain pride in being a fast runner. And when I started training for the half-marathon, I honestly believed that speed would return. Boy! Was I wrong! No matter how hard I tried ... in fact, it seemed that the harder I tried, the slower I got! I strained a hamstring. I broke my toes. I got runner's cramps. I got hot. I got dehydrated. I got discouraged.
I got slow. The day of the race in Hartford, I was unbelievably slow.
God loves slow runners!
Yay! Whodathunk? If I'd shaved one minute off my average per-mile pace, I might never have met the most wonderful guy who just happened to also be running slowly beside me.
My "Marathon Man" came back last weekend, and took his very first ever ever riding lesson. You can see the photos in the album on the left. We had a blast, even if his backside was so sore the next day that he could not sit down! After he got home, he wrote to me about how excited he was to learn to ride, and looking forward to all of the wonderful adventures we will someday have on horseback ... to include riding through the Flint Hills this spring at the Flying W Ranch near Candlewood Falls.
I am heading out the door this afternoon to take another long, slow run. May I never run fast again. May I learn to savor the moment, smell the roses, and appreciate the legs that carried me, oh so slowly, to a happier life!