I told myself when I came back from college that I would pick up running, or at least jogging, in order to stay in shape. Throughout high school I had conditioned with Squash training and Ice Hockey. In squash, I was predicted to go to college on a scholarship (before moving to Indiana [dreamcrush!]). With Hockey, I had a, uh, "Old School" coach who looked like a WWE wrestler, but older and in better overall shape. All that said, I trained pretty hard, and by the end of Senior year, I was in pretty damn good shape.
Then I went to college and didn't exercise seriously once, aside from the spare unicycle ride. I still ate healthy, slept well enough, and walked at least 5 miles every day, so I don't imagine I got terribly
out of shape. That is false.
Tomorrow, I thought whimsically yesterday, tomorrow I shall go for a run! Man I am an idiot.
I woke up at 10, got out of bed at noon, and prepared for my run.
NextDraft pointed me to a good article about
long-distance running, which motivated me to go.
OK, I told myself. I live at 126th street. I am going to run 1 mile to 116th street, then walk back. Sounds like a good plan, shouldn't be too hard, I lied to myself.
I put on my athletic shorts, found a pair of running shoes buried depressingly deep in my closet. I hoisted my socks up high and proud, put in some earbuds, grabbed my
FitBit, and walked to the intersection. I started a light run.
Shit, which leg first? Oh damn, ow! F***! I forgot to stretch! Are my legs different heights? Why am I leaning to the left? I think there is something in my shoe. My hamstrings hurt. My throat hurts. How do I breath? Should I be just breathing through my mouth? Lemme try my nose. Shit, not enough air. In nose out mouth? Nope. What? Frack! How do I do this? My arms are cramping up. My elbows are solid, should I be swinging? (Here goes a fit mom, she seems to be having no trouble at all). I watch the fit mom for technique ideas. She smiles at me as we jog past each other, she probably thought I was a pervert. But arm movement isn't critical, although I am bent over way too much. Damn slouching posture! I probably look like a grandfather attempting to flee from a home while having an asthma attack. How do people do this to themselves? I could be in my computer nest, trying to make music or practicing juggling or...
doing any god damn thing else. The worst thing was when a stitch hit. These are diaphram muscle spazms that I had been plauged with during middle school Gym classes, but took a leave of absence in High School. Nope, I still got them. They are caused by my internal organs bouncing up and down and straining my other internal parts.
THAT ISN'T GOOD. (Now, as I
look into the issue, I realize my breathing is entirely at fault). I considered giving up, and passing out on the side of the road - or worse, picturing my old coach yelling at me. He once skated me until my legs literally gave out and I collapsed on the ice, he is a dangerously good motivator. Just as I was contemplating my options, I realized I was only 100 or so feet from the end.
oh. I thought. I can do that.
I ran the mile in almost exactly 7 minutes. Oh. Not actually that bad.

I walked around, crossed the street, walked a bit, and got myself motivated.
Actually I lied to myself
I am feeling pretty good. I have certainly felt worse, with more in front of me. Lets do this. Lets jog back! Judging by my pace, and the music I was listening to, I ran .3 -.6 miles. Probably just under half a mile back. This latter attempt was a mistake. I felt like my sides were tearing open and being stabbed by small pointy things (concurrently). My throat decided that it would dry out, I started coughing. I felt like I was going to throw up - I think I even dry heaved a few times. When I knew I wouldn't make it, I set a visible goal (that mailbox!) and let myself stop there. Even this was too far, by any health nut's standard. My body reported it was considering giving up on my brain, which was able to keep itself motivated and kept the legs moving (a la old Coach). But just because my legs would listen to my brain doesn't mean any other part would. Stomach: "I hate you" Mouth: "nope" Lungs: "Good luck breathing without me, jerk!" . Walking back, I stopped twice for air, but forced myself to at least w
alk. I regretted not moving to a land filled with benches and water fountains. Walking back, the song
Woody Woodpecker by Dan Deacon came on, taunting me further. As I was dealing with being laughed at continually by my music, I passed a small group of healthy-lifestyle 20 somethings from my neighborhood. One of them got a laugh at my pain. I could feel their judgement, burning at me.
I ripped off my sweaty shirt before I even got in my door, which due to collapse, I opened using primarily my face. I looked like the 'after' portrait on a TV commercial advertising gang rape. I climbed up (damn) stairs and collapsed.
Do it again tomorrow? Sounds like a plan!