I ran in high school, not very well. Track and later one season of cross country were a waiting room between childhood gymnastics and the rest of my athletic life. During the course of a few months, I learned how to jump over a hurdle and how to not get lost running a 5K—and then they were over.

At each end of season banquet, however, I secretly hoped to get an award. Not Most Valuable Runner. No way. But maybe, just maybe this season … Most Improved.

I mean, I’d showed up to practice every day, I’d worked hard. I’d gotten faster, then slower, then faster again. But just showing up wasn’t enough to win the (very real) honor of Most Improved. You have to start somewhere, and you have to—obviously—improve.

A girl named Sarah got Most Improved one track season. She ran the two mile, that 8-lap slow motion slog around the track scheduled just before the exciting 4×400 yard finale. She really had improved, using her long, awkward gait to get faster and faster through the season so by the end she was sneaking up on and passing the competition.

You have to start somewhere. And for a long time, I didn’t want to admit that I needed to improve.

I’m going for Most Improved again, but on a team of one:

—Two years ago, I started running on a track for the first time in 25 years. It took me several sessions to peak at my watch—just knowing how slowly I was going was as painful as the last 25 yards of each 400.

—Last fall, I joined a group workout for the first time in 25 years, and suffered not only the hurt of running up and down hills, but also the psychological discomfort of being passed by people I’d pegged on first sight as “slow.”

—In January, I ran not one but four 5K races. That was hard, physically and psychologically. My times did not improve through the month-long series.

But now, I’ve broken through something. I’m on a Finger Lakes Running Club forum where the moderator posts weekly workouts. After doing two or three of them successfully, I started to like the workouts. In this season of working from home, I bounce out of my chair at 11:55 a.m. to suit up and run hard on the waterfront trail, no longer afraid of the mile markers.

On Sunday morning, I captured evidence of improvement. I ran 16 miles on the waterfront trail, training for the big one next Sunday: 19 miles in support of the Finger Lakes Running Company. I completed 13 miles of the 16 in 1:52:45—within a minute of my Syracuse Half Marathon time last November. And I’d been chatting with Bill much of the way.

Other signs of life:

—An unofficial 50:45 10K (Ithaca’s Skunk Cabbage race gone virtual) on April 5

—Eight minute miles are now pretty comfy

—I captured a 7:18 mile in the wild during a longer workout. I was supposed to be running 7:58, but hey, I will take it!

I write all this not to brag, but to remind myself that improvement is possible if you’re willing to admit that you need to improve. In running, which is utterly measurable, and in other areas, like writing, one doesn’t simply start out “having it” or not. Talent and natural ability require development. And even a modicum of ability, such as I have for running, can grow.

Writing, my profession and art, doesn’t have times attached, but benefits from the same confidence and long-range vision as my favorite distance sport.