I hate running, but hate failure even more.

My knees are killing me. As long as I move, walk, keep going then I feel okay. If I sit too long, or heaven forbid sleep at night, I wake with stiff, painful knees.

I have to walk backwards down my stairs, since it is less painful than walking down them forward. I ran Saturday. I ran Monday. Tuesday I woke in pain—hot, achy knees. As the day wore on, I felt better.  

I went to Big 5 and purchased running straps that are placed just below the kneecaps—one for each knee. I have a bad knee. I knew that and I wear a brace every time I run. But now, my good knee hurts even worse than the bad one.  Hence, two straps.

I planned to run today, and it’s killing me that I can’t. I look out the window and think, “Just do it” (like Nike).  I want to. I need to get out there. Each day not running, I feel is wasteful. It  takes my goal of improving my running and smashes it to smithereens  (you know, one step forward, two steps back theory). I hate running. But I feel compelled to do it. I want to test out my hypnosis.  I want to try my new knee straps. I want to do better than I did on Monday.

 Then I look at the bag of frozen hash browns on one knee and the bag of frozen fake hamburger meat on the other, and think “You’re nuts” (Bags are in place as I write, and boy do they feel good).

I’m a hack runner, a beginner of all beginners—a true beginner in the literal sense of the word—not a beginner who thinks they are a beginner because they can only run 7 miles in one sitting beginner. Since I don’t run kazillions of miles, then why the heck do I have “runners knee” (my symptoms match every internet diagnosis)?

 For the small amount of running I do, I should have . . . nothing. I should be just fine. My lungs should breathe happily, my legs, feet and knees should be rejoicing that it isn’t worse, and my body should be thankful.

Why the rebellion?

I can’t run, but I can’t just sit here either.

It’s frustrating not being able to train for a race that will make me cry, curse and ultimately make me wish for death. I hate running (did I already say that), but I think I hate failure worse.