Maybe hate is a strong word, an overreaction to the situation perhaps but it fits into a handy bastardisation of a Def Leppard song which neatly sums up how I feel.
I hate running.
Hmm, that really is quite a strong sentiment. I abhor running? I loathe running? Well anyway, running and I are not friends, we’re not even really acquaintances. We’re more like strangers who are forced to sit near each other on the bus three times a week on a dreary commute to the office. One of us has bad body odour, and it sure isn’t me. Running stinks!
The dull thing is though, I also hate the fact that I’m stupidly unfit and that I let myself get into this state in the first place meaning that my hatred of running and my hatred of being such a couch potato are currently locked into a battle for supremacy with only one the victor.
Who’s it going to be?!
Oh of course it’s going to be running. Even if I do want to punch it in the face repeatedly (yes I do realise you can’t punch something that is not an actual thing in the face but still, the sentiment is there) and spend all my time on the treadmill going ‘fuck fuck fuck, hate hate hate, angst angst angst, gnash gnash gnash’.
I’m still doing it though even if it is through tightly gritted teeth. Three times a week I haul my arse to the gym and hammer out my training whilst whimpering. I’m not ready to take my jelly to the streets, I’ve not got a clue about pacing or stride length and I wear a pair of massively unflattering cropped Lycra trousers and a work t-shirt but I AM doing it.
I just wish I’d done it sooner and it wasn’t such a bloody uphill struggle.