I have never liked running, but I do it anyway.
Back in high school, in a drama class assignment, we had to memorize and present a comedic monologue. A friend of mine chose one about a woman trying to get her life together by exercising more. The one line I’ll never forget is when she said that her attempt at running left her “in a ditch, coughing out my kidney”. It’s been years, and this line is still pretty damn relatable.
So with that in mind, why do I bother running? Surely there’s something else I could be doing instead? Something that doesn’t make me contemplate every choice I have ever made in life and wonder how those choices got me to this point, huffing and puffing in drizzly, early-morning near-freezing temperatures. Nodding and smiling at my neighbours like “this is fine, please don’t call the paramedics, my face is always this red”.
The reason is this: over the summer, in a fit of overconfidence in my own ability, I signed up to run a 5K this coming spring. That may not sound like much to people who run regularly, but I’ve never run consistently outside of gym class. I alternate between thinking that the distance is “nothing at all, no sweat, it’s fine”, and “oh no what have I done?”.
The run is far away enough that I have enough time to train myself. This is all going to seem so funny by this time next year, when I’ve signed up for a 10K or something equally out of character. For now, I do have some stuff to look forward to, beyond the athletic achievement of it all. A friend of mine is coming with me to cheer me on, and we’re even making a little trip out of it!
So from now till then….wish me luck!