Every morning, as I did last summer, I head out on a 2 mile or so big walk around the neighborhood with my Dad and employed younger sister. This is a wonderful time that I missed immensely during my El Paso year, even though we start at 5:30 am and I'm worried they're going to bail on me more often.
Case in point: today I was the lone late-starting participant, but decided to make the best of it. I woke up my grumbly sister once again and borrowed her old iPod (because I'm without any functional music listening devices), laced up my sneakers, and hit the already sun-kissed sidewalk.
I haven't always hated running. I'm very proud of the time in 3rd grade that I placed 2nd in the half-mile during gym class. That's the peak of my physical accomplishments, right there. I talk about it a lot: sprinting down that final hill onto the soccer field, right behind the boy who would go on to be a high school track star, the grass soft beneath my feet and the wind flowing through my unbrushed hair.
In the past 15 years since then, it's been more of a hate-hate relationship. Right now I'm utilizing the run-stop-run-stop method of fitness, because jogging is the very worst invention. Armed with my sleeping sister's purple rhinestone iPod nano, I found the most 'workout' ready playlist (Pop/Dance) and proceeded to be immersed in old Adele, the Glee version of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun', and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I would run during the parts of songs that seemed most possible to run to, and speed-walked the rest of the time as if I was rushing from one side of my college campus to another because I'd invariably triple-scheduled myself. (I'm convinced this is the sole reason I stayed healthy those past four years).
As the walk/run progressed I became increasingly flexible about what counted as running-worthy parts in songs, moving from basically anything upbeat to only the intense choruses, until I was in the final section of the loop when I realized I was strolling along to the thumping beats of 'Everytime We Touch'. Memories flashed back of shrieking in high school dances and jumping up and down in a circle with my friends, always awkwardly unsure if I should put my hands in the air or just stick them at my sides.
This was a bit of a signal to pick up the pace. It felt like a training montage in a movie as I bowed my head and outpaced snails, ignored construction workers judging me as they shoveled dirt. I finally scaled that last hill back to my front yard and collapsed on the steps. I checked the iPod: the world clock said it was 5:20 am in California.
I groaned audibly. I'd left the house around 7:20 EST, which meant it had somehow taken me an impossible hour to do just that loop? That was how long it took just normal walking! I heavy-breathed for a couple minutes, failed to open the front screen door, and dejectedly let myself in through the back.
Imagine my unfounded joy when I looked at the little blinking green lights above the stove: 7:50am! It hadn't taken me an hour to run two miles, it had only taken half an hour! A genuine 30 minutes, even less if you account for the time I spent feeling sad and dehydrated on the porch.
Look out Usain Bolt, there's a new challenger on the planet! Someone who enjoys exercise and is good at it! (Not me. But somebody, probably.)
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