Run, rabbit, run.

My number was 4616. I have no idea what my time was, but I finished the race without falling, stopping, walking, or throwing up. The Race for the Cure is only a 5K. People run 10K’s, half-marathons, and full marathons (even those sicko 50 mile super marathons) all the time, so comparatively, the distance was a drop in the bucket of the running world.

But dammit, this is big shit for me.

A year ago, I couldn’t run the same distance without stopping and walking intermittently. Two years ago, I could hardly run around my block without feeling like someone beat me with a stick. When I started running last summer, it was more of an experiment than anything. Along the way, I found that I really liked running, bizarre as that sounds. Though I’ve yet to find that elusive runner’s high that people claim to feel that keeps them going those long distances, after 30 minutes of running I feel refreshed, de-stressed, and weirdly energized. Running used to make me feel like I’d been chewed up and spit out; now I look forward to my every-other-day jog and am disappointed when I have to forgo it.

Is this yet another step in my slow transformation into my father?

Does this mean I am an athlete now? Yeah, I think so. I’m an athlete. At the risk of tooting my own horn (Isn’t that the whole point of blogs?), I’m really proud of myself, especially the great cause I was supporting. I’m really looking forward to the next race and maybe taking on a 10K.

Neighborhood dogs be warned. You may soon be eating my dust as I swiftly stride by instead of my leg.