Every morning lately I've been lacing up my shoes and heading out into the warm morning air, pounding the pavements until my legs feel like they're ready to fall off and and my lungs are about to explode.
Then I turn around and run the one and a half kilometres back home. Hardly an impressive start but I guess it is one all the same.
In my mind I can see myself bounding along the track, feet and spirit light, as the sun rises but in reality my daily runs have become a bit of torture during which my calves had started to cramp and I can feel the pain working its way up my legs to meet the sweat trickling down my back.
Why on earth had I thought this whole get fit thing would be a good idea?
As I huff and puff along I watch the other runners on the track who are easily racing on with hardly a hitch in their breathing and find myself more than a little jealous of their easy ability. I imagine that they've really been walking until they reached the point where others could see them and then sprint onwards until they're out of sight again. Hardly true I know but we all have to console ourselves.
As the pavements slowly pass underneath my feet I find I go to extremes to keep moving; cranking up the music and picking points I have to run to, always slightly concerned that all the swearing circling through my head to keep me moving will eventually burst out of me and be screamed said out loud.
But in recent months, while I watch as the morning runs of more than one friend gradually extend into half marathons and even full marathons, I've begun to wonder if there isn't something contagious about all this running. And even on the days when I wake up with legs so stiff I have to hobble around the house I still find I want to tie up those laces and head out again, to try and move farther and faster than before.
So I guess if it is contagious, then I've caught it.
Damn!
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