First run, last week, I did 2.0 miles in 25 minutes.
Second run, last week, I did 2.0 miles in 24 minutes.
Third run, tonight, I shaved another 95 seconds off my time.
But I'll be the first to tell you: I don't like it. In fact...
From the moment I step on the treadmill, until about one and a half seconds before I hit the all-merciful STOP button, with every fiber of my soul, I HATE running. (Yes, my soul is made up of fibers. Lots of tiny little hateful fibers. Fibers that hate running. A lot.)
Throughout the torturous run - aside from encouraging things like "you're already 48% of the way there!" - my mind says things like "Just stop." And, "Why? Why are you doing this?" And, "This is so stupid. I am NEVER doing this again."
Yet . . .
On my way home, as my heart rate is normalizing, and my limbs are returning from their gelatinous state, and my head is starting to pound, and my little soul-fibers are reverting to their sweet loving little selves, I hear my mind whispering things like, "Next time, I'll shave even more time off..." and other bizarre, masochistic things.
I do like the way I can take a really deep-lung breath about 15-20 minutes after the run. And I like that I burned some of the calories I consumed this evening. (85% of the way through a pint of Ben & Jerry's "Half Baked" I noticed that a pint is 4 servings; x270cal = 1080cal of my supposed 1800 day - oh, and I went ahead and finished the pint.)
I hate running.
I'll do it again on Friday night. And shave off more time. Then increase the distance. Then shave off more time.
I REALLY hate running.
Oh, and because of my man-boobs and my Santa-belly, my sweat forms a big goofy smiley-face that mocks me.
Did I mention I HATE running?
