Let's get physical.

I love to run.

I haven't always been very good at it and even now good is an absolute relative term.

In elementary school, I feigned sick on most of the days we completed the President's Physical Fitness Test. The very thought of the shuttle run caused me to break out in massive hives. (And I think I did make myself vomit on the day we were required to do pull ups. For all that is holy in this world, who decided that God-forsaken exercise is a required physical skill for fourth graders?)

I did play team sports in junior high and high school, but running wasn't heavily involved for those with a court side view from the end of the bench. When I was an hour late for practice my junior year, I had to run 'killers' in front of the boy's varsity team - for an hour. That's 60 whole minutes. Sweating. In front of boys. Cute, tall, basketball-playing boys.

For years, the very smell of tar, whether I was near a track or not, made me sick. The only place I was getting to fast in my early twenties was the bar during happy hour or to the mall on tax-free weekend. I hated to run.

I honestly can't say what changed. First, possibly, it was the Freshman 15. Then, next, it was the post-wedded bliss 20. All I know is it was adding up and I was 28 years old, about 20 pounds overweight and desperately ready for a challenge. Could I stare in the face of what I abhorred most (and would I be forced to do the shuttle run, or God forbid, a pull up?!)

So, I joined a running clinic. I trained hard. I ate right. Then I ran a 5K. Then a 10K. Then a Half Marathon. Then, yes, a Marathon. And I kept going in spite of professional setbacks and promotions, birth, death, motherhood, a big move, and lots of other good and bad times. I never missed a step.

There is another part of me that is in desperate need of training right now.

I love to write. I absolutely love it.

For me, writing is so much like running. The glory of a new idea is just like the hum my body feels at the end of a really long Sunday morning training run. When the sun comes up over the trees and dawn is breaking, and it's my feet I hear pounding the pavement over the din of my Ipod - well, that's no different than the clicking of my fingers at my laptop in the dead of night as I sing quietly along to my ITunes play list, right? The surge at the end of a mid-week training run is almost the same as furiously getting a passage written during my lunch break before I return to reality.

So, here I am, at another crossroads. Do I turn to the left and take the easy path? It's just a quick sprint to the finish where my good life is waiting. Or do I head to the right - the ultra marathon, the path before now not taken?

I know, without a doubt if that's what I choose, I'll be beaten up along the way. I'll get tired. I'll stumble. I may even fall. I hope to have understanding family and friends to pick me up and push me on. I could use the encouragement. Most likely, there won't be a medal for me at the finish line. No fanfare and no winner's podium.

But there will be a book. My book.

I think I'm ready to go the distance. I mean, I've got my cross training down pat. If you're reading this, welcome to my literary version of Pilates. I'm stretching every bit of my writing muscle to get ready for the big race.

There are occasional victories. There are some defeats. Tons of sweat. Hours of commitment. Pain. Certainly joy, too. And with running, I've learned to expect anything - rain on race day, extreme heat in the dead of winter, no water on the course, no food at the finish line, and no energy to get it done. Plan for the unexpected - a motto for runners, as well as authors. But there's always some sort of pay off in the end. Getting to the end - that's a personal triumph in itself.

When I completed my first marathon, I made it two steps over the finish line before I doubled over in tears. I was sobbing uncontrollably.

A course monitor yanked me over the side. "Are you OK?" he demanded.

I kept on blubbering, but managed to nod.

"Is this your first marathon?" he wanted to know. I nodded again.

He put his arm around me. "That's OK, I cried after my first marathon, too."

He knew how I felt. It's not sadness, it's that empowering feeling of doing something so few of humanity, really, have accomplished. It's almost indescribable.

This time around, I do have to get it down on paper, though. Every thought, every feeling. Every detail. I'm ready - I've been running away from this goal my whole life and it's time to see this dream through to the end.

I'll meet you at the finish line.

P.S. Big shout out to Mummy Toe - who helped me get running (real, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other running) in the first place.