Before I decided to do the Marine Corps Historic Half last month, I had already registered for the Marine Corps Marathon this upcoming October. The half was just a practice run to get acquainted with the whole distance-racing process and ambience.

I’ve never done anything quite like this before in my life.

The running statistic is that only .1 to 2% of the world’s population has run a marathon.

During my 13+ years of recovery, I’ve learned that I am a compilation of opposites. My self-esteem, which at times is frail and barely existent, can turn very suddenly into a brazen confidence that convinces me that certainly I can run 26.2 miles. Of course I can.

Can’t I?

Twenty-six point freaking two is pretty daunting. It puts a whole new twist on that “one step at a time” concept.

I’ve got a lot of distance to cover (literally and otherwise) before October. I’m both thrilled and terrified.

Some training days I feel philosophical, and I compose lengthy narratives in my mind comparing running to life with not-so-original metaphors. Some days are grueling, and I think of nothing but finishing the run. But the majority of the days are just plain great, and I feel happy everywhere that I can feel.

The “runner’s high” that I previously had experienced only as a brief electric adrenaline shock has evolved into a sustainable blissful state that lasts long after I take off my shoes. I really do believe more therapists should prescribe running instead of Prozac. And I also believe that more unhappy husbands should take up running instead of a mistress (or two). What a wonderful world it would be… shiny, happy people…

Today I am most grateful for my health – for my legs and for my feet – for my strength and, mostly, for my heart.

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