My Guts look like the eight worms he carries in his palm.

I suppose I always think of guts as, big piles of internal organs spilling over the pavement in the middle of a long race, or a large quantity of worms wriggling in Isaac's little hand. There is another definition, the one where you step out and do something hard and brave. This post is about the former.

I entered a Half Marathon about a month ago in an attempt to motivate myself to run more. My current regiment is to do a long run (12 to 14 miles) on Saturday mornings with a group (501) and then sometimes wake up early Thursday, if my friends initiate. Missing a few Saturdays and Thursdays, I have been running no more then once each week.

So on Sunday morning, I went into the Dexter/Ann Arbor Half with two thoughts. The first was that I would miraculously run fast and do great, no training required. The second thought was that I would just try to enjoy it and cheer and have a great time.

At the Start line I contemplated my thirty years of running and how I must be smarter at 37 and thus, know to go out conservatively. Well, that went out the window mile one, with a 7:20 pace, then a 7:00 minute second mile and some faster pacing through to about mile seven.

My mind says that at one time 7 minute pace was comfortable (my fastest half was way under that), BUT my body and current self grill me with questions: why are you running and what is this all about and is it for you or something else, do you even like to race?

My mind got more bold after mile eight, as I looked for an exit, dreamed my husband would show up with the car, thought of just running home and eventually scanned the sidelines for emergency vehicles.

Somewhere in there I did my cry to God for help. Then to know that I am loved in spite of actions, my times, my choices. My guts on the bravery side kept saying, just walking or stopping is brave. You have permission to hop out. I even thought of running up the final hill and off to the side, rather then under the arch, with the mantra that, "Running is not what defines you." I did some faster steps, only to say, No, not today. I ended up in the over 8 minute pace for the last 5 miles and did a slow jog up the final hill, which is counter to everything in my legs.

I met my amazing running partners who had phenomenal times and rejoiced with them. So my path is not set. My goal not defined. My energy divided and through it all, my legs still itch for pavement, my body sighs from a good hour and forty four minute run along Huron River on a beautiful day. Who knows what comes next? I seem to wake up each morning trying to define myself with whatever is in front of me, a guitar, a blank notebook, a pair of old sneakers, Isaac discovering spiders and white caterpillar like larvas and carrying in his little palm, eight slimy worms with several potato bugs all squirming together.