Texans are known for their state pride. You know us by our favorite sayings: Everything’s bigger here, Don’t mess with us, and Y’all can go to hell- we will go to Texas. Then there’s my personal motto: I wasn’t born here, but I got here as fast as I could.
That one was always true for me; I grew up just north of Baltimore and didn’t travel west of the Mississippi River until I was a newlywed, heading to San Antonio for a house-hunting trip.
It was a bit of a culture shock at first—the food, the pride, the Spanglish, the highways—but it didn’t take long before San Antonio felt like home.
A few years into our tenure there I found a running group called “We Run San Antonio” and before long I was training with a team and making friends. I could go to a track for a workout or a local race and know dozens of runners. I could show up to a race and know who would be my biggest competitors just by recognition.
If I got injured, I knew who was the best Airrosti specialist, who could dry needle me, which physical therapist to see and who to avoid. In short, I had the running world in SA all figured out, and life was great.
And then, 11 years later, we left.