Driving home from work or the grocery store, do you ever see folks running as if they were being chased by a Pamplona bull?
You know the ones. The fitness freaks with the tank tops and anklets and lightweight shorts flopping halfway up their ass cheeks?
I hate those people.
They make it all seem so fluid, so fun, so effortless.
I’ve played basketball all my life and I’m always up for some tennis or sandlot baseball. These sports suit me because they involve short bursts of activity followed by rest.
But running for endurance is torture.
Several years ago, in an incredible lapse of judgment, I ran a 15K. And for the past year or so, I’ve settled into doing 5Ks in the neighborhood to keep all my indiscretions from parking in my midsection.
So far, it is working.
But it ain’t easy. Ten minutes into a run, the mind reminds you this was a bad idea. Halfway through, muscles begins to rebel. Near the end, lungs reach down deep to provide the finish.
Which, although never pretty, is always satisfying.