I can't run and I haven't run, not even for a bus, since Sports Day 1992.
I can't run and you'll only ever see me run if something large and scary is chasing me ... or if there's a glass of wine waiting for me.
These and many other anti-running quips have regularly passed my lips over the years. The thought of running, or indeed any form of exercise, has never filled me with glee but I stand strong in the certain knowledge that I just cannot run.
Sports Day 1992 and every other Sports Day before that were days which I anticipated with dread. I've done the Mum's race once for each of my kids. Let's just say that neither of those occasions ended well.
Can't run, won't run. That is me. Friends suggested running together, I looked at a treadmill once but ... no way.
I am pretty stubborn so that should have been THE END but something strange happened:
Three weeks ago a striking realisation crept up and hit me square between the eyes! An epiphany, if you will.
When one of my children tell me that they can't do something they get a good motivational talking to and are encouraged to give it a try. I have plenty to say, not least:
Can comes before can't.
I am right there behind them, motivating them to do their best, cheering them on until they get there and then celebrating at the (real) end. Why not the same for myself?
So, perhaps I can! This is a blog of trying and seeing where it takes me.