Some five years ago, I had a thought. It was a stray, errant thought, more of a throwaway comment, really. It came at a time of what you might call tumult. I had just accomplished something big - and I mean truly epic, by most standards anyway - and I suddenly felt... well, I guess you could call it unanchored. I didn't know what to do with myself. I needed a goal, something to strive towards. And as I was tossing up options and just vomiting them on paper (well, on screen, in actual fact, on another blog much like this one), this thought was included.
And the thought was, maybe I could train to run a marathon. To raise money for some foundation or other.
Only, I didn't actually mean it at the time. It was there just for the count. You know, as in, I might do this, that, or how about this one. That kind of thing. And here's why I didn't mean it: I have always hated running. Okay, not all running. At high school, I was sort of athletic, within limits, and even represented the school (badly) on a couple of occasions in 100m sprint. But anything longer than that, and I truly mean anything, was a despised chore to be shirked at any cost.
So, just to be clear, I never meant to run long distance. Five years ago, it most definitely was just a throwaway comment.
Fast forward to some three years later, and an incarnation of me that was unmotivated, out of shape, and vaguely unhappy with life. And so I thought, maybe I should give this running thing a go. Everybody seems to be doing it. Can't be too hard, can it? Um. That's about all I have to say about that stupid idea. Even running around the block, which added up to some 500 meters from memory, and not stopping was a challenge. I did show some spine even then, persevered, and gradually improved a bit. But my heart just wasn't in it. It was still a chore, something that I was doing because I thought it was the right thing to do. It wasn't enjoyable. Then I moved house, and it was very easy to decide that I was too busy organising things to find time for running. And so, that was that for my first foray into the realm of running.
Uninspiring, and short-lived. But we all have to start somewhere, right?
And the thought was, maybe I could train to run a marathon. To raise money for some foundation or other.
Only, I didn't actually mean it at the time. It was there just for the count. You know, as in, I might do this, that, or how about this one. That kind of thing. And here's why I didn't mean it: I have always hated running. Okay, not all running. At high school, I was sort of athletic, within limits, and even represented the school (badly) on a couple of occasions in 100m sprint. But anything longer than that, and I truly mean anything, was a despised chore to be shirked at any cost.
So, just to be clear, I never meant to run long distance. Five years ago, it most definitely was just a throwaway comment.
Fast forward to some three years later, and an incarnation of me that was unmotivated, out of shape, and vaguely unhappy with life. And so I thought, maybe I should give this running thing a go. Everybody seems to be doing it. Can't be too hard, can it? Um. That's about all I have to say about that stupid idea. Even running around the block, which added up to some 500 meters from memory, and not stopping was a challenge. I did show some spine even then, persevered, and gradually improved a bit. But my heart just wasn't in it. It was still a chore, something that I was doing because I thought it was the right thing to do. It wasn't enjoyable. Then I moved house, and it was very easy to decide that I was too busy organising things to find time for running. And so, that was that for my first foray into the realm of running.
Uninspiring, and short-lived. But we all have to start somewhere, right?
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