Running on empty

Love the swag, hate the actual running part

For a while there, I was a runner. I ran very slowly, but relatively often. I trained up for a 5K and ran (was swinging my arms in a running motion) the whole way. Sometimes I got a runner’s high; mostly, I got sore muscles. The weight loss I took up running for never materialized and I lost patience with doing an activity I don’t really like for no discernible benefit. I walked instead, which burns a lot fewer calories but never leaves me drenched with sweat or terribly out-of-breath. Recently, I’ve started trying to run again.

Why I want to be a runner

1.       Have you ever seen a dedicated runner with a belly?

2.       It’s pretty easy. Limited financial commitment to equipment, ample opportunities to practice the sport everywhere.

3.       People who exercise have better health outcomes. I don’t want to spend my golden years spending money on healthcare when I could easily spend it on important things, such as food and shelter.

My running feels

Now that I’m getting back into it, I’m remembering why I have a love/hate relationship with running. The first interval I run is always bliss—“I’m so strong! This is fun!”—it’s the third and fourth and fifth and eighth interval that make me question this madness. Running is sort of an aspirational activity: I do it because the person I want to be is a runner, not because the person I am likes it. And because the massive amounts of fro yo calories I ingested last night aren’t just going burn themselves.