My memory isn’t fading—the other day, I remembered the name of a neighbor I haven’t seen since pre-COVID; when I trot down to the basement fridge, I bring up all four things I needed to grab. (A win, am I right?!) Yet I often forget the jubilation and pride that floods my body after a race. 

I need to bottle up that joyous post-race feeling to remind myself why I’m about to embark on training for my first half-marathon in eight years. Lately, I’ve been lamenting how the training is going to take away time from open-water swimming and playing pickleball—two activities I pretty much want to do around the clock. My favorite summertime “brick” is swimming 35 to 50 minutes in a clear, just-this-side-of-cool pond, then playing pickleball for at least two hours. The swimming satisfies my solo Piscean side, while the pickleball feeds my social, scrappy self. I head home from the pond and courts feeling invigorated and invincible.

If you need me, I'm either at the PB court or the magical swimming hole

I’m set to follow the 13.1 Race It plan from our Train Like a Mother Club, and training kicks off this Monday (with a rest day!). On tap for Tuesday: an easy three-mile run with five 20-second hilly strides–and playing in the women’s pickleball league I organize every Tuesday from 8:00-10:00 a.m. I’m confident my body can handle the workload of both athletic endeavors, I’m just not looking forward to getting up earlier to shoehorn in the run plus my pre- and post-run routines. Ditto on Thursday: another three-miler, followed by another two-hour weekly pickleball session I’m committed to (and always enjoy so much!). Over the weekend, it’ll be a  case of juggling a longer run on Saturday and a shorter one on Sunday with more pickleball (folks, it’s truly addictive!) and a glorious open-water swim. A part of me, the size of which varies by the hour, wishes I didn’t “have” to do the runs.

Feeling accomplished at Hilton Head

I look pretty happy post run, eh?

Then I remember the elation I felt during and after the Hilton Head Quarter Marathon at our retreat last November. Sure, my lungs were gasping for more oxygen and my quads strained, yet I also felt stronger and more capable than I had in years. I replayed moments and miles from the race in my head for weeks, heck, months afterward, like stoking the embers when the fire of my sporty self-esteem needed to be re-kindled. 

Last Monday morning, hoping to shake my “ooof, I have to run” bad attitude, I went on a six-mile run. My bare arms and legs had goosebumps for the first mile or two, and I never felt overheated in overcast, slightly misting Portland. (Sorry, heat-domers!) Taylor Swift mocked a typewriter-obsessed lover in my ears, and I marveled at the profuse blooms on kousa dogwood trees dotting the neighborhood.

Somewhere in those miles, like the two pennies I spied on the pavement, I found my semi-dormant, “running is THE best!” outlook. Yet another feeling I’ll have to bottle and keep handy over the next few months.