Confession time: this walking thing has me frustrated. Walk walk walk walk. I spend hours doing it and while it’s great to say I walked 25 miles last weekend it took me freakin’ forever to do it. I need progress. I need movement. The idea of walking even four miles yesterday was torturous to me.
So I ran.
Hello Mr. G., my ever-faithful treadmill. I’m back on your gerbil wheel once again. I knew it was a beautiful day. I felt bad for not wanting to be out in it (maybe it’s the horrific sunburn I got on Saturday) but I think, in truth, I needed numbers. I didn’t know how far I would run but I wanted to see the statistics just the same. I like watching the numbers climb: the minutes, the distance, and even the calories burned (although I could care less about that right now).
Here’s the thing about the run – I can’t admit to the last time I actually moved that fast because I don’t remember my last run. Like a lapsed Cathlolic who can’t remember her last confession I’m not faithful to the religon I call The Run. I guess it really doesn’t matter because compared to all the walking I have been doing, the run felt like flying. 20 minutes turned into 30. 40 minutes flew by and I asked myself why not 50? Soon I was approaching an hour. I decided to stop at 5.5 miles. I’m no speed queen. I barely broke an 11 minute mile. But, here’s what mattered: I got past three miles and my knee doesn’t hurt. Not one squeak. It felt good to fly. It felt good to push the limits. But. But, tomorrow I go back to the walk. No questions asked.