I’ve decided that I am in fact, a walker who happens to run a little and not the other way around (a runner who happens to walk a lot).
I don’t understand the running appeal. I just don’t get it. Walking I understand. Walking I embrace. I will happily walk long distances. On the other hand, while running short distances I find myself loathing the world. I am not a happy runner. No, while running I am fighting for every breath and I know in the back of my mind that once I stop running, even for a moment, my calf muscles will seize up on me. I dread running. I love the treadmill. I love the stationary bike. I sorta enjoy my stepper machine, but the track—especially the track at the SDRC—I can’t stand. I shake my fist at it, “Why can’t you be fun? The machines have a little TV to enjoy. You? You offer me nothing—nothing at all!”
Running is a bugger. It’s kicking my butt. I admit it—it is. I went to the SDCR today to run the track with a goal of running at least 5 laps straight. I pumped myself up. I told myself. “YOU CAN DO IT! Don’t you dare think about stopping! Pretend you are being chased by a bear! Run girl, run!”
Well, I ran four. It hurt. I stopped. That’s the way I work. I stick my tongue out at the “mind over matter” nonsense. My “matter” is strong willed, gosh darnit!
If running didn’t hurt, I’d like it more. But it does, so I don’t . Sorry all you avid runners out there, I don’t like your sport, BUT I will bow to you if you would like in way of apology. Three cheers for all the crazy people, I mean, runners out there! I tip my hat to you. I will kindly wave to you as you fly by me ( and I promise to keep my middle finger down).