A sprint towards the finish line

Somehow sort of



Once upon a time I exercised a lot. I began ballet lessons at about 6 years of age. I took my exams, won medals, danced on pointe. I read Noel Streatfeild and dreamed of dancing. I expected to be a ballerina and perhaps I could have been.

If I had kept it up.




But then I discovered teenage kicks. I wanted to put on lip gloss and go to town on Saturday mornings, not warm up in an icy cold hall.

So ballet was forgotten and other than that which was enforced by school, exercise and I parted way.



My twenties rolled by without any exercise other than bad dancing in nightclubs. Then my thirties arrived and I felt the need to try again. It took only a handful of visits to realise that the gym was not for me. On the other hand Yoga felt like coming home.

Every so often I would try something else, something more aerobic, but would quickly fail to keep it up. I attemtped running again and again, carefully followed the Couch to 5k plans but without success. It was too hard. I was not a runner.

Then someone gave me some very good advice. Just keep running, no matter how slow.

So I did. I ran so slowly it was laughable, barely breaking a sweat, perhaps even slower than I walk. It was a revelation.



I kept it up. A few times a week when walking the dogs I would run, oh so slowly, instead of walking.

And one day I started to like it. I run most days now. Not far, it's about two and half miles. I am faster now but won't be winning any prizes and I am not sure I will ever run much further. It doesn't matter, because I am so happy to be doing it. Running through the woods, marking the daily changes of the season, breathing deeply, dogs by my side. It's fantastic and I finally get it. Somehow I became a sort of runner.