Saturday, I went for a bona fide run. You know, an outside run where I ran a concrete, measurable distance instead of in place like a hamster. It took me ten steps to realize that this run was going to be onerous, and it was going to suck.
Running on a treadmill is elementary because pressing the start button triggers your basic instinct to survive. You must run to prevent falling to your death. When outdoors, however, not running (example: walking) has a greater likelihood of personal survival for the average, middle aged paper pusher like me (minus situations incorporating zombies or bears). Survival mode or not, I was there for a bona fide run.
Ninety feet into my run, each step is like a stampeding elephant. The jarring shock waves that should be shaking the trees aren’t because the shock waves have been corralled inside my skin. Every bone, joint, and muscle feels the 7,000 kg striking force in each step. I monitor my stride, foot placement, and cadence but there is no escaping the stomp of a stampeding elephant.
I remind myself that the first mile of the run is always the hardest. It’ll get better.
Now 600 yards into the run, I think if I were an original engine in a 41 year old Camaro, the mechanic would have already dove through the window to shut off the ignition to stop the devastating knocking that would surely cause the parts to seize shortly. Instead, I’m just a 41 year old runner, ah, former runner, trying to recapture a little of the glory from 8 years previous. Those knocks aren’t going to go away by stopping.
Finally, I run past a mile. It’s that moment, the 5280th foot when everything starts to run smooth. Yet, at 5281feet, this run still sucks.
It wasn’t until I’m in the neighborhood of 1.5 miles that the knocking is gone, the elephants stomped away and I enjoy running again.
Two minutes later, I’m out of time. I stopped running and walked home. Being out of time sucked the most.