My running routine is simple. I run 3 days a week, 30 minutes at a time covering roughly 5kms or 3 miles.
Sunday I skipped the run but put in a proper workout as Eve and I went on a hike up and down and all around Suraksan with a collection of Francophiles. I figure we hiked for over 4 hours which qualifies as a workout in my mind.
My legs agreed. They continue to agree as for the past two days they’ve whinged at every set of stairs.
Today is Tuesday. That means a run.
I don’t want to run. My legs don’t want to run. I don’t even like the letters ‘r’, ‘u’ and ‘n’ right about now.
So I ran.
I ran because with jello-built legs this is when I should be running. And I know it’s going to hurt. A lot.
And it hurt. A lot.
It sucked bollocks.
It sucked dead bollocks.
It sucked reanimated bollocks.
That’s right it sucked so bad it sucked zombie dog balls!
The first few steps felt like someone thought my blood was due for an upgrade but first needed to clean the lines with lava. My legs burnt. Muscles screamed in dire agony. My gait resembled something like the Soju Saturday Eight. Still I stumbled along. Trudging and begrudging each and every step. Berating my body for getting old on me. Brow-beating myself for betraying my mind with the foolish notion that I should even bother to worry about my physique. For 37 I’ve got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, a lot of people years younger than me wish they enjoyed my general body shape.
Still I staggered onwards.
About a third of the way there I hit a haze; the wall seems unlikely after only a mile but not inconceivable, runner’s high I don’t know about as I’ve never felt it, a mild aneurysm? That seems most likely.
I managed to make it to my turn-around point with out falling in the river or bursting a lung.
Seemed like a lot longer than half-way to go.
Hey, neato, there are streetlights that line the path. Means I can run throughout the winter. Why’d I think that? I hate running. Stupid, evil zombie dog’s balls of an activity.
Koreans zip past on their bicycles, now there’s a proper way to get around. I should get a bike. Wait, I hate all exercise. Festering, stupid evil zombie dog’s balls of an activity.
There’s a high likelihood my retinas detached for a while due to them abdicating their positions out of sympathy for my calves and thighs.
No way is this the same route I took earlier. It’s longer for one, steeper for another and I’m pretty sure I’d remember if there were alligators with napalm teeth. Good thing my eyes are on holiday.
I start to resemble a typical waygookin departing Jane’s Groove at 5am on a Sunday morning. Only without a pair of smoke-filled lungs. Good thing this path naturally weaves and winds as it follows the course of this river.
Glowing in front of me I see a beacon of hope. A pulsing green cube of light. I know where I am! That’s the outdoor driving range near the church next to the bridge right near the parking lot where I started this masochistic torture.
Then, mercifully, gratefully, mercifully I reach the cement footbridge that marks the starting and ending point of my runs.
Instictively I slap at my stopwatch, it ‘pings’ its acknowledgement. When my eyes can focus as I walk too cool down and then stretch out my abused muscle I finally see the time.
This death march only took me thirty seconds longer than my average? That doesn’t seem right. Or fair.
But it is accurate.
And it is why, come Thursday evening, I’ll do it all again.