Not fast but yearning to be a runner? Don’t sweat it. It’s OK to go slow.

I recently went to the inaugural evening run of an informal running group in Palmer. I am not an evening runner, but I went because the group was my husband’s idea and I like the people there.

Standing around our cars in an informal circle before we started, I scanned the group.

They all looked like serious runners. Happy, friendly, yes — but they had watches.

Let it be known about me as a runner: I’m serious about it, yes, but in a different way than many other runners I know. My husband teases me about my pace. “She has her pace, folks!” he will often announce to an imagined audience as we are getting ready to run.

It’s a familiar call and response. “Not any slower, not any faster,” I always reply.

Part of me still finds it miraculous that I’m running at all, which gives me a different perspective from my naturally athletic and competitive spouse. I remember when it was unfathomable to run for 20 minutes straight. Running was this mysterious thing that other, fitter people did, and in the beginning I very cautiously tried it on for size.

At first it didn’t fit. I was red-faced and wheezing at the end of every block, wondering how exactly people did this for any length of time. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t magically like one of them — a real runner.

But at some point I realized that “running” could simply mean jogging. I started running slower and longer — an hour, two hours, a half marathon and eventually a full marathon.

I’ve logged so many miles since those early days that now running is just muscle memory. It’s part of my identity. Even though I’m not fast by any stretch of the imagination, I’ve run so much that I am fully confident in myself as a runner. I am, I suppose, one of those people.

Still, even though I have muscle memory for running, I also have latent memory for lagging.

Scanning the small group on that recent Thursday evening, I mentally prepared myself to take up the rear of the group.

We started to run. At the edge of the parking lot, everyone briefly hovered over their watches and pushed some buttons. Setting their Strava or what-have-you.

I started running with the group and kept up for about one minute, if that, before slowly but inevitably lagging behind.

The pace they set was not that fast, it was just faster than my famously consistent pace. I knew if I tried to keep up I’d be miserable. My mantra kicked in — no slower, no faster. Run your pace, Alli.

So I did. First I was a few feet behind, then a couple driveways’ lengths, and eventually a quarter mile and more. I watched their running forms turn occasionally to each other, smiling as they went. I wondered what they were gabbing about. I wished I had brought my headphones.

I felt — what was this? — shame! I was back somewhere near my own beginning, wondering how people run for 20 minutes. I am typically secure in my running, but there is something jarring about watching a group steadily outpace me.

Don’t compare, I told myself. You are doing the right thing to listen to your body. And you’re running! In the evening! Keep going, and focus on your breath, the view, the physical sensation of being alive.

The physical sensation of being alive on that particular evening happened to be 40 degrees and rain, so that part was a little challenging. And then I’d glimpse the group in the distance and feel a flash of sadness at being behind.

What I thought about most was if I were a new runner, this experience might be enough to completely deter me from trying again.

I have a wellspring of running experience to draw from and all the security that comes with it, yet it was difficult not to compare myself and fall into shame. If I were brand-new? The only association I would have would be the latter. It would be that much more difficult to talk myself into trying again.

I share this for other would-be runners out there who might be just starting out. There is no “right” pace for running. Other runners in this group were going theirs, just as I was going mine. In the end, I had a much better run listening to my body than caving to FOMO (fear of missing out) and going too fast.

I’m going to go back to this runner’s group this week. I hope someone else who runs at my pace shows up. And, just in case, I’ll bring my headphones.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.