I went on my second run yesterday morning, and it was decidedly less cute than the first. Once, long, long ago, I was a sprinter, running for seven years for club and high school teams in my hometown. I was by no means a track star, but I consistently placed (sometimes even speeding across the finish line first!). My fastest 100m was 12.1 seconds (again – no track star) and I once ran a mile in 6 minutes, before then immediately wanting to get violently ill all over myself. Despite how miserable the entire experience was both during and after, my six-minute mile is still a moment of glory for me, because I’ve never been a distance runner and that will never happen again.
Which brings us back to yesterday morning at 7 am, when I laced up my new running shoes and hit the local park with the seemingly lax goal to run three miles in less than a half hour. And it was brutal. My biggest issue is, and always has been, pacing myself with distance, as I usually start at lightning speed and then forget to power down, which results in things like an accidental six-minute mile and lots of agony. In addition, I feel like I only have good form at faster paces, so going slower makes me feel like I’m a big lumbering mess. Also, jogging at a moderate speed reminds me of those nightmares when you are running your little heart out and yet moving in slow motion.
I’ve decided to “train” every other day, so tomorrow morning I’ll go out again. I am so looking forward to it.