I met half my running goal yesterday. I have an upcoming 5K run (3.1 miles) hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles thanks to my 8 year old daughter as part of her Girls on the Run program. In 2 months, she will participate in a 5K Fun Run, and is required to have a running buddy. Never mind that her oldest sister was routinely running 5 miles last year. Never mind that another sister and brother were high school track stars receiving All-State honors and college track scholarship offers. Pay no attention to those other runners in the family since old dad drew the short straw and is officially her running buddy. Yay?

I finished a 1.55 mile training run yesterday, so I have another 2 months to double that distance by Fun Run day. At this point in my life, running that additional 1.55 miles seems to me like asking me to run to the moon on a path of flaming, broken glass that has sharp teeth that bite at my feet while I carry a hippo on my back. No wait, that’s no hippo, that’s an ass. My fat ass. As a former distance runner and triathlete, getting even halfway to 5K has been a humbling experience. Not only was I once an athlete, but I even collected some awards from races over the years, mostly from the awards table when nobody was looking.

This 5K Fun Run actually should not be as daunting as it appears to me. I was actually in pretty decent shape late last year, until …

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