6 Miles is 6 Miles.

In high school I was a solid B/C student. Except for Chorus, I got A's in there. It wasn't that I didn't possess the potential to earn A's, I just didn't care. I was happy with a B on my report card. On report card night I would come bouncing home and flaunt my B's to my parents, hoping they would ignore the C in Latin. No such luck. Ever. Instead, I was greeted with a "Why aren't these A's?" Even the occasional A went overlooked, shadowed by the gruesome B or C.

It's not that my parents weren't proud of the A. They just wanted to challenge me, to make me work a bit harder and push myself to my potential. Unfortunately for them, I didn't have the same sentiments.

The past couple of weeks I've been running four nights a week. I'm toying with the idea of training for a half marathon in May, but at the very least I plan on training for the 10k. Seeing as I ran 6 miles last week that shouldn't be too hard. All I need to do is keep up with my new found hobby.

The first time I ran 6 miles I texted my marathon-running dad a photo of the treadmill screen. "Good work!" he said. The second time I did it he responded with a "Very nice. That's great. Keep it up."

The third time I managed 6 miles was last night. I was a sweaty mess with sore feet. Turns out when your shoes are bald as a baby's bum it is time for new running shoes. Also, my sports bras are from high school and I wear Hanes tank tops from WalMart that chafe my arms. It might be time to up the ante and go wild by investing in some Old Navy tops and some sports bras that actually have elasticity.

Where was I? Oh yes, "Dad!" I texted, "I did it again!" I sent along another photo of the treadmill screen broadcasting 6.0 miles and a time of 70 minutes. Fully expecting something along the lines of "Good job, honey. You're a badass." I was shocked when he responded with, "You can do that in under 60 minutes. Push it a bit." Hello, high school? Is it report card day again?

He's not being mean, mind you. Of course he's proud of my running. He just likes to challenge me. He knows that I can't back down from a good challenge. And he knows that I can do it.

You know what? He's right. I can push myself a bit more. I almost died, but I did it. I squeaked out 3 miles tonight at a 10 minute/mile pace (ignore the extra 3 minutes, it was a warm-up). I don't know why the hell I'm concerned about speed when I should just be concentrating on not keeling over dead in the middle of the gym,  but whatever. I did it. Mission accomplished, Dad. Can I go back to my nice 11 minute/mile now? Okay, great. Thanks.

But seriously, thanks for pushing me and always giving me a good challenge to work toward.

Oh, and I'll be buying new running shoes this weekend. Wanna lend me a couple bucks?

Kidding! I'm kidding. I can buy my own running shoes. Old habits die hard.