About a year ago I decided that I was too big and I was embarrassed about how out of shape I was...it was time to do something...I chose to run. Why? I don't know. Really thought it would be therapeutic, relaxing, and a fun way to shed lb's, get in shape, and give me time to think through stuff.
So I started running. The first day out, I ran (really more of a slow trot) for about 7 blocks...thought I would die. Frankly, I wanted to die. Just hit me in the head and end it. My feet hurt, my lungs burned, and there was a strange red licorice color in my cheeks.
But, I did it again the next day...and the day after that...and then it became something I did 4-5 days a week...then I ran a race...then I got a bit addicted. I never got crazy about it. Frankly found it rather boring, but I like the runner's high and got to listen to good music. Sure, I was not a "runner", but I regularly ran 2-4 miles 4-5 times a week. I should be proud of that...but I am not.
See Claire is training for this marathon...silly me thought it would be a good idea to train with her. You know, run 4 days a week together. Get to really feel comfortable chatting. Discuss, politics, religion, the pros and cons of antidisestablishmentarianism. You know, normal stuff.
We have gotten to the phase in the training that we should be doing 13-15 miles on Saturdays. We did 10 miles today and decided that it was too cold to keep going, so we got in the car and drove away. Sure, we are going to run 4 miles on Sunday to make up the difference, but frankly I am a bit dissatisfied with my effort.
Then I think, just last Thanksgiving I was pushing close to three bills, could not run 1/2 a mile, and would sit on people if I did not like them...now, 1 year later, I am under 1/8th of a ton, can see my shoes, and am not happy that I ONLY ran 10 miles. How in the world can I be disappointed with the effort? I dunno, but I am. Guess it is just a matter of perspective.