Nine weeks. Nine weeks of intermittently hating and fearing a computer voice. Nine weeks of sweating more than any other time in my life combined (including that Death From Above 1979 gig I went to years ago). Nine weeks of cursing my knees and my joints, of being so out of breath it hurts, of limping around my office and grunting like an old man, of confusing dietary advice and grim determination or an approximation of it anyway. All to be able to run for half an hour solid. Doesn’t seem like much but it sure as shit feels like a lot.
I’m almost there. I’m so close to throwing it all in Alison’s face. One more week of ‘training’ and I will theoretically be running half an hour three nights in one week. This was nothing I couldn’t handle which is impressive to me in itself. A few problems this time, ones I’m surprised I didn’t come across until now. They can be broadly categorised thusly: boredom, other people, cats.
For fear of saying the same thing every week (‘it was hard but I did it anyway’) I’ll keep this brief. This week features my first 20 minute run and the hardest run I’ve had to do yet. Which was not the 20 minute one.
For a number of reasons that I don’t need to go into I just haven’t felt like trying to be funny on the internet. So I missed a few weeks of this running review thing. But I didn’t miss out on actually doing the runs, those kept going. So forgive me for this jumbled up two-week recap.
That up there is my new ‘I’m going running’ t-shirt and I think it’s partly responsible for this week becoming, dare I say, somewhat enjoyable.
Forgive me for breaking one of Orwell’s sacred rules of writing by starting this off with a cliché but progress is a slow process.
I have started running.
Be calm, this is not a sign of impending doom, the moon has not turned to blood and to the best of my knowledge no two-headed cows have been born the past week. Stock markets won’t dip and no-one will run into the streets rending the clothes from their bodies while shouting their protestations to the heavens but for me it’s a pretty big deal. I don’t really do physical exercise. I’m a pasty little English nerd not so much picked last for school football teams but the subject of arguments over who had to be saddled with me. I’m the last person you would expect to voluntarily sweat in the name of trying to be healthy and I have always been particularly adverse to running. I have some pretty solid reasons I feel (it’s undignified, I’d look stupid, don’t have the energy, in that order) but they all seem to cower before the main argument for exercise. The ever-growing and unavoidable fear of getting old.