I hate running. Especially if it is solely as a form of exercise. I get it if it’s to not be the rotten egg, or to not miss your flight (that happened) or to escape a heard of stampeding rhinoceros maybe. But purely for exercise, no thanks you.
That being said, and I think this illustrates my biblical determination to loose this weight, I did it anyway. Legend! I got off my fat arse and I ran. And I hated every fucking minute of it! My lungs felt like they had shattered glass in them, my poor knees, the weekest they’d been for a long time had to carry me, heaviest I’d been ever! Oh and not to mention my bloody shins, which felt like they were going to compound fracture the moment I put my foot on the tarmac. Then of course there was the next day… well fuck me I could barely get out bed, let alone walk… I just kind of hobbled around like John Wayne if he’d shit himself.
Now this may sound like I’ve dived in at the deep end, over stretch a little, did I go straight in with a half marathon or something? Nope, I ran for a grand total of 6 minutes! 6 fucking minutes, that’s it… And not even in one go. That is 6 minutes spaced out of a total of 21 minutes! What the fuck! I thought I might actually die. 6 minutes…
There was a very real chance that this whole getting in shape malarkey was going to fall at the first hurdle…
Leave a Reply