The Sad Runners club

I’ve been roped into doing a running relay event in a few months. The funny (not funny?) thing is, I ain’t a runner. The feeling of the caboose jumping around at the end of the track back there is not my fave feeling, at all. Ever. Actual running has never been my forte, but here I am.
I’ve been gyming my heart out for 18 months and am strong like bull, at least compared to what I used to be, but the so called “joy of running” still eludes me. But I must keep searching because the weeks are declining, and not in my favour. Husband suggested I cut out the step aerobic classes, much to my displeasure, because I’ve had 2 calf strains on the same leg, and although I love dancing around on a potentially ankle wrecking bench, I have to save myself for the trails and roadsides of the high country. Sigh.
So today I ran 2 10 minute legs. Sure, it was on a treadmill, so maybe it wasn’t real running,  but it was caboose-rocking and in sharp contrast to whatever other machine I had already punished myself on for eating all that delicious pad thai last night. I huffed and I puffed, then I sent texts congratulating myself on orchestrating world peace, or rocking that caboose and living to tell about it. They both felt on par. And then I went back and did it again, and got further on the hypothetical recurrent track than before. So the pressure is on to do it again tomorrow, and perhaps the day after that. And perhaps, for real when the boys are at school next week. That might be pushing it, though. But you get the idea. Ahem, Camila.


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