For some bizarre reason while exchanging messages with a friend on the other side of the world earlier this evening I guilted myself into going running. At 9:10pm. At night. I wandered upstairs and pulled open the drawer that hasn’t been pulled open for something in the region of seven years, and fished out a pair of running shorts, and a bright yellow t-shirt that was probably made of some sort of space age wicking fabric, designed to deal with sweat. Obviously it was never designed for the tidal wave of sweat I was about to subject it to, but we’ll try not to dwell on that thought.
Here’s the thing. In your head, running is all about losing yourself, escaping from the cares of the day, and vanishing into the distance in the manner of Forrest Gump. The reality is about feeling like you’re going to die after a mile, because you’ve not run any kind of distance in seven years. You really should have thought more about it when you left the house and realised it’s probably the hottest, most humid night of the year – but no, because you’re stupid.
As hinted, I made it to about a mile before stopping to walk – for the first time. I then made it another half a mile before walking again for a bit, or actually quite a lot… or actually the rest of the way home. I think it’s fair to say I’m more unfit now than I have ever been – but at least I’m doing something about it. True, one run doesn’t really qualify as “doing something about it” – if I can get back into the habit of going out once or twice a week to begin with, I’ll see where it takes me. I’m just trying to run for an amount of time – not to cover a distance in an amount of time (if that makes sense). I used to be able to run for an hour, many many years ago.
Of course the endorphins have kicked in now, and I feel tremendously positive about everything. Let’s wait and see how sore my legs are in the morning.