The most impressive thing about my training run yesterday was that it was pouring rain and I still did it. I am basically the bravest person on Earth.
My goal was to get up to four miles, but I was a big quitter and stopped after three and a bit. I’ve been told that the first two weeks of any new habit (cutting sugar, waking up earlier, running progressively more miles every other day for the next five weeks, etc.) are the most difficult, most especially when that new habit is physically punishing, because all your body wants to do is stop and cry and take a bath and go back to sleep. I am currently right in the middle of my first two weeks, so things continue to be rough. My knee hurts, my ankle hurts, I’m getting cramps, my lungs are on fire, I tried to pace myself by running just behind a random stranger trotting along with his elderly dog and even he was going too fast. You know, all hallmarks of an excellent start.
I know a guy here who is in such good shape (from regularly running in a gas mask to limit his oxygen intake – as you do) that he once ran a marathon on a whim. I made him some of my now world famous soft pretzels and he offered to help me train. “You will run distance,” he said. I politely declined, out of both terror and shame.
However, it’s not all bad news. I’m becoming a font of silver linings, so I must say that despite the fact that the running hasn’t gotten easier – I still hate 98% of it and it continues to make me feel like an out of shape, winded loser – I am beginning to experience brief moments of glory, like when I decided to run myself all the way back to my house, as opposed to taking the opportunity to “cool down” (read: walk) for a little while.
It’s the little things.