I never wanted to run. I hated all sports equally.
Then, a few years ago, I started running, very very slowly, just to mess up with my cardiologist’s plans.
I liked it.

I never wanted to race. Why would I?
In 2006, I was forced into a half marathon.
I became addicted. That was the day.

I never wanted to race a marathon. Those long runs were scary, and I didn’t want to spend so much time training.
I did the New York City Marathon in 2008, I cursed like a sailor for the first 10 minutes after crossing the finish line.
Two hours later, I was figuring out how many more races I’d to do to qualify for next years’ NYCM.

I never ever thought I’d get to run Boston.
I was very surprised when I qualified, during the 2009 NYCM, injured and all.
I ran my funnest and smartest marathon in Boston that year.

I never thought I’d want to run anything further than 26.2. That sounds just about brutal.
Then the slower pace, the trails, the camaraderie of the all-night runs bug bit me.
So I run my first ultra marathon and a couple more.

Then I wanted to get a bit faster. I thought reaching 70% in age grading would do it.
I did that last year.
I am sure I will be happy with these if I start getting old and slow tomorrow.

Well, what now? Do I even need to have goals?
A part of me feels like I need them. I like structure, goals, objectives, I like achieving them.
Another part is very happy to be running free and content with what I have done so far.

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