I don’t think I like running. It hurts and I huff and puff like a pregnant walrus. Running is not fun—not fun at all.
I made another attempt today. I found a really nice walking/jogging track in Centerville that marks a 1 mile trail. Did you guys know that a mile looks really, really long? I walked along this trail and when I got to the half mile marker, I was like wow, this isn’t bad at all. It wasn’t until I got to the 1 mile marker that I realized, I didn’t start at the beginning. I had started at the quarter mile. That was depressing.
But I plugged along, walking most of it, running some of it. As I looked at this trail I could not imagine how I could possibly run its length a total of 3 times. That is what I need to be able to do by April to run the 5K. I need to be able to run this amount three different times for the Ragnar. It seems impossible—an insurmountable task. I feel as though I am setting myself up for failure or death by running.
I used my husband’s GPS watch and tracked that total, I walked/run a distance of 1.7 miles. A little more than the last time, but not much. A friend asked me about last time that I had run, if I hurt anywhere. Actually, I did not. I felt great. Today I hurt—my thighs hurt. Is it supposed to do that?
My body is resisting the new change. It was used to the easy life. My body is screaming at me now saying, “What are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed?”
I always see runners running. They are everywhere. I have yet to see the appeal. Okay, it’s only my second time, but still. When does this get fun? Will it ever?
“I never said it would be easy…only that it would be worth it.” Okay, okay—I’m clinging to that phrase. Please be worth it, please be worth it, please be worth it…