If you’ve read my blog posting, The Day Marsha Skrypuch Whipped My Butt, you might be assuming that I’m a newbie runner. You’d be wrong. In my much younger years, I ran almost every day. I ran on the streets, in the parks, even up and down the stairwell of our apartment when we lived in a rough neighborhood. I ran to burn off lots of energy, so I could feel calm—and to burn off lots of calories, so I could eat like a pig. When my house started filling up with kids, I bought a treadmill so I could keep moving.
A few years ago, I celebrated my midlife crisis by signing up for two marathons that were spaced several months apart. Continue reading