Last week I wrote for the first time about my upcoming half-marathon. Over these past weeks, I've realized how running serves as a mirror for me; it brings my tendencies and personality into much greater relief.
For example, in the early days of training a simple jog quickly plunged into an exercise of obsessive-compulsiveness. I counted everything that possibly could be counted: the number of mailboxes and street signs I passed, the steps that I took, and the pattern of breaths entering and escaping my lips, which, I have discovered, is a sure-fire way to quickly veer into hyperventilation. (Lesson: there's nothing beneficial about over-thinking something as natural as breathing.)
I'm past this now. Mostly.
Running also reinforces my predisposition towards being goal-oriented. I need goals. Or, to quote Jim Rohn, "The ultimate reason for setting goals is to entice you to become the person it takes to achieve them."
My premise behind this race is a simple one: if I can train myself to stick to a schedule, push past discomfort, and mentally overcome self-doubt in the running realm, then I can do it in other realms of life as well.
If I can run 13.1 miles by taking one step at a time, then can't I translate this lesson into all other areas of life? To write a book by penning one word, one sentence, at a time? To tackle large projects without being daunted by their magnitude?
Earlier this week I received an email with my race and corral numbers, something that vaguely made me feel like cattle. Corral? Really?
As I read the details, I grew simultaneously excited and nervous -- okay, nauseous -- which must be my default contradictory emotional reaction because I experience it to a certain degree with every large endeavor that pushes me out of my comfort zone.
Two weeks from today: race time!