I’ve been testing the waters by slowly, gently jogging on the treadmill at my gym. I used to be a “real runner”, but that was at least 50 pounds and quite some time ago. I want to get back to that, and the only way to do that is to run.
Ever start back to running after giving it up for a long time? It’s delightful. You should try it sometime. Seriously, any time you feel up to a bout of self-punishment and masochistic flagellation, take yourself for a run.
I decided to go for broke and take my run outside. It will be fun! Fresh air! Scenery! The great outdoors!
Ummm, no. The transition from a nice, smooth treadmill in an air-conditioned gym to a trail with hills in muggy, disgustingly humid weather really required a stepping stone or two in between. I don’t know what I was thinking. A few paces in, sunscreen mixed with sweat was running into my eyes. My calves were protesting by tightening up. My lungs felt like they had surely collapsed, in a heroic, last-ditch effort to force my body to just stop already.
I was surprised that no one walking or jogging by attempted to administer CPR to the gasping, wheezing, breathing-like-Darth-Vader, obviously-in-distress chubby lady jiggling along the path. Every fat cell on my body felt like it weighed a ton. I kept rubbing my poor, assaulted eyes (damn sunscreen!) I was mouth-breathing like a fish trapped on land. In short, I was a sad, pathetic, and somewhat disturbing sight.
“This is fun,” I thought to myself (because I am sarcastic even when I talk to myself). “Great idea. Maybe we should go swimming with sharks next, genius.”
I had to slow to a walk here and there, but damn it, I came here to run. As soon as I could, I picked up the pace and resumed running…or, rather, plodding along like a turtle in quicksand, wishing desperately for an ambulance to scoop me up and rescue me from the hell in which I had placed myself.
Sweaty, eyes red and burning, sore already, ego wounded and pride shot to hell, I shuffled home. My husband asked brightly, unsuspectingly, “How was it?”
“Horrible,” I mumbled.
“But you did it,” he pointed out.
True. I was too stubborn to admit defeat and just head home, so at least I had a workout done for the day, whether it was torture or not. (And oh, it was.)
The irony is, running won’t get any easier until I lose weight and get into better shape. I can’t lose weight or get into better shape without exercising. So, like it or not, working out is the only gateway to where I want to be. I just need to grit my teeth, deal with it, and power through the toughest part to get to where I very much want to be.
So I will.
Last night, I got reacquainted with a long-lost, old friend: my favorite treadmill at the gym. (Yes, I’m one of those people who picks out “my” treadmill and is more than a little tiffed if someone else has the audacity to use it).
Sweat & Sparkle 