I am not a runner.
This is a pretty deeply entrenched story in my mind. I run, but not seriously. These days I rarely run farther than 12km at a time.
But even when I ran 22km every Saturday and 2-3 additional 15 km runs per week, I never felt like a runner. I didn’t (and don’t) have the build of a “real runner”. I didn’t consider myself disciplined. I didn’t consider myself serious about it. I certainly didn’t take fuelling and nutrition seriously. I never ran for time. I never wanted to compete. It all just seemed so decidedly casual that it couldn’t be possible that I was a runner.
I ran a half marathon.
I ran a full marathon. In the mountains.
I trail ran 25km all the time when I lived in Banff.
I have run on road or trail for varying distances for 11 years now.
Still, I can’t call myself myself a runner.
So I’m not a runner. But damn it, I’m going to run an ultra this year. I signed up for the Mount Robson Ultra, a measly 50km jaunt over the river and through the woods. The race is September 10th, just ever-so-shy of 6 months from now.
Follow my journey. Celebrate my insanity. Expect a lot of bitching and moaning. This is not a running blog. This is a space to document my anticipated mental anguish care of what will surely be a ludicrously unconventional training plan (read: I am not willing to sacrifice my social life nor wine “hobby”). If I survive, I can knock “run an ultra” off my bucket list, proudly declare myself a runner, and promptly plunge face first into a giant vat of wine.