Sometimes I think when I say I love running, I should use inverted commas. In bold. As in, I “love” running.
I love the feeling I get after a run, running faster than last time, setting goals, the smug feeling I get imagining how impressed other people are with my fortitude (didn’t she run past like 40 minutes ago? Do you think she’s been running the whole time? …say the voices in my head. They also say ‘run fat girl, run!’). I love that running is primal (humans are engineered to run), plus its free and environmentally friendly. I can listen to music, exercise my highly active dog, spend time with my sister/running partner, be outside and enjoy the amazing city I live in. I’ve seen the some of the most beautiful sunsets while running along Newcastle break wall, exacerbated by what can only be ‘runners high’. Running can be almost (ALMOST) meditative and is often a great stress relief.
Here are just a few of the photos I have taken while running (well I suppose I had stopped at the time…)
But running itself? The feeling of running? Sometimes yes, it feels great but most times…it is a constant mental battle to keep moving.
The first km? Not loving that, no matter how much I tell myself ‘my body is just warming up, it won’t feel like this the whole run‘…that first km is horrible.
Why is it that one day I’ll sail through a run and feel like I’m the king of the world, while the next I can barely move my feet and ladies power walking with a small yappy cavalier overtake me (yeah Melvin didn’t love that either)? How is it so easy sometimes and other times, for no discernible reason, it is JUST TOO HARD?
Blisters, cramps, headaches after not drinking enough water….
Oh running, you are a cruel mistress.