Three weeks into taking the 5K training to the next level, I’m finally starting to not hate myself for agreeing to do it. I’m running at least a mile or two every time I go to the gym and have recently built up to running the full 5K, doing it twice last week–and sweating so much I looked like a fat guy who swims with his shirt on just getting out of the pool.
Despite all the complaining I’ve done, the nipple-bleeding and the thigh-burning, I’m becoming a Bri-liever, which is kind of like a Belieber only all the ‘tweens believe in me—not Justin Bieber. Getting on the treadmill no longer requires “I Am a Champion” blaring from my iPod on repeat and the thought of everything I’ll do the moment I get off the ‘mill–first on that list being not running. Now I get on. I run. Then I run a little harder. And I don’t stop until I’ve reached my goal.
The only explanation for my shift in thinking is that I now believe I can do it. For most of my life, I made excuses for not wanting to run. In my fattest days, it was because I’d rather be eating. (Put that on one of those “I’d Rather Be…” license plate holders.) In my decreasing in fatness days, it was because I felt self-conscious about my moobs. In my “skinny” days (I put “skinny” in quotes because, you know, it’s all, like, relative, man.), it was because–and I quote–“Running is for pussys. I don’t run; I lift.” (I was a little abrasive in my early 20s.) In my “I was ‘skinny.’ What the fuck happened to me?” days, I just didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to do much of anything other than feel sorry myself.
Now though, after losing 140 lbs., gaining 80 and then losing another 50, I’ve reached a point with my body–and possibly with age–where I think I can do anything if I try hard enough, even run this 5K that I thought was going to kill me three weeks ago.
I just gotta Bri-lieve.