Is it possible that middle age is not the most elegant time of life to start jogging?
I went for a practice run the other day, mostly motivated by a morbid fear of being left in the dust, breathless, red in the face and humiliated at my upcoming running clinic. I quickly had to adjust my intention to run daily when every muscle in my lower body mysteriously seized up the next morning. There’s a lot going round right now, so I obviously came down with a rare achey-body virus.
Still, the first running lesson went quite well – despite my disappointment that they didn’t cancel after a foot of snow fell the night before. The idea of running was stressful enough without worrying about sloshing through the slush and muck of a retired blizzard.
I was horrified to discover that the goal of the clinic is a 5km race. And here I thought the goal was to be able to trot to the end of the block without keeling over and dying. Still, as we ran I’m pretty sure I could feel my butt firming up which is really what it’s all about.
It was a glorious moment when we found ourselves back at the store before I gave in to the urge to disappear down the nearest alley and stumble to Starbucks.
And not a single crisis at home while I was out – yay!