I got fat, so I ran
I always wanted to be one of those women who just put on their shoes, tied up their hair and ran. But I had never run. Ever. I was the girl at school who would do anything to get out of the cross country. I even drew fake bruises on my legs with felt pens so that I could get out of running. I had never, ever run.
But then that all changed. My gorgeous, glamorous, slim younger sister came back from New York one summer, took one look at me, and said: "Kath. You've got to run".
The babies, pies and cheese on toast had taken their toll and I had, quite simply, got fat. I blame tunics and leggings for letting me get that way.
She could see it. I had got fat. I had got tired. I had got weary. I had got sad.
So that day she gave me her running pants and shoes (those poor running pants were under significant pressure) and jogged me out the gate.
Ten minutes. Ten long, awful, grim, death-like minutes.
The next day, she took me out again.
Ten minutes. Ten long, excruciating, horrific, soul-destroying minutes.
The next day she left. She flew back to the skinny people in New York. And there I was. With her significantly under-pressure running pants and her hand-me-down shoes. The two greatest gifts anyone has ever given me.
Four weeks later, I ran a 5k Fun Run in Petone.
My life changed.
I got slim. I got strong. I got happy.
I began to panic that other women were where I was - fat, tired, weary and sad. So I started writing about running. About being a wife, a mum, a daughter, a friend, a colleague. But above all ... a runner. Every day I wrote in my blog - hoping like mad that at least one of those woman would read it, put their shoes on, tie up their hair and run.
The road is yours. Run.
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