Okay. I've finally realized no one really likes to run. Not at first, anyway. Maybe not ever. The jury is still out.
I had visions of loping easily along, like a wild animal; formidable, fast, a stunning picture of grace and power.
It's not like that. I loathe it.
No. Really. Loathe it. Always have. Even in the years before I started smoking, I was not a particularly good runner.
Running hasn't gotten any better in the intervening years, either. Plus, is it just me, or is gravity getting a lot stronger? I'm here to tell you. Gravity is strong. Damn strong. Especially when you're going up hills. It gets even stronger, then.
It hurts. I suck desperately for air, and fight to keep some rhythm between my feet and my breath, and I try very hard to ignore the fact that I can hear all the blood in my body roaring in my ears. I get all sweaty and red in the face. It's actually sort of awful.
Then I realized everyone I see out running looks the same way. I felt a bit better.
So then I started thinking about marathons. Those people never really look like they're having that much fun, after the beginning. Not until the finish line, when they get to stop. Right?
So I started looking around, checking out some of the training schedules helpful runners have posted for newbies. There are some nifty 20 week plans to train to peak for your first marathon.
They say things like "Week 12: Monday--Run an easy eight miles--you should be breathing too hard to sing, but still able to gasp your location into the cell phone for the ambulance guys. You know. Just in case. Come home and do wind sprints til you pass out. When you wake up, drink as much water as you can hold, walk out the charley-horses, then blend up raw eggs with almonds and drink that, too.
September, I think. I think I could be ready by September.