Forty minutes isn't a long time. A quick read of the Post, an IM or two, a cup of coffee, finishing the Post article, and a trip to the loo (See, infra, cup of coffee) and voila, forty minutes. But when you broke your foot six months ago, twisted that ankle 4 months ago while rehabbing it, and an upper respiratory infection has left you with an inhaler-worthy cough, you can't even think forty minutes ahead as the pavement comes up to slam the balls of your feet.
About ten minutes in, things start to tighten up. You stop jogging in place at lights. You notice that other people are looking at you with a "man, that doesn't look like fun" look on their face. Normally, you're in an endorphin-filled wonderland by now, happily musing on the sounds pouring in through your headphones. Today, instead, you notice the glances. You can't help but remember that this first one-to-two miles used to be a warm up. You feel old, like you are marching up a hill you climbed but slid down.
The light turns green. You start again. Ten minutes later, you lose the will to live.
1 comment:
It's been tough for me to get back into the routine at the gym. This morning I thought I would die about 6 minutes (and one interval) in.
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