When it comes to running, I was a late-bloomer. I grew up in a non-athletic family; my siblings didn’t do sports, my parents didn’t play catch with us and were no athletes themselves. I didn’t start running until I was 29, convinced by my boyfriend to do a duathlon with him. I grudgingly did that, and running infected me — hard.
In the year after that duathlon, I ran a 10k, a half marathon, and then a full marathon. The marathon distance stuck, and that’s sort of where I’ve been since then. I dabbled in ultras and ran three 50ks, but the marathon always seems to be the star I set my sights on.
Nine years later, among all my medals and age group prizes, there’s one race that’s notably absent. It’s sort of an odd one, usually the gate-way
drug race for most runners but, at 38, I’ve never raced a 5k.
That’s right; I was a 38-year-old 5k virgin. Last week, I decided the time had come to get that 5k done.