In a delicious twist of events, everybody in my 5K group who registered back in June–optimistically so, at an “early bird” price of 40 bucks a pop–bailed out this week. It was a comprehensive abandonment of ship, with back surgery, weddings, and family matters rounding out the spectrum of reasons. I haven’t donned my running shoes since Saturday, frankly, but neither have I consumed a bacon cheeseburger this week, yet, so my hope is this balances the cosmic scale somewhat.
I know why I should stick with it, make no mistake. There are the immediate health benefits. On the two days I ran, sleep was deeper and more fulfilling than I can recall in years. More importantly, regular exercise would be the key to breaking my sedentary cycle of work and media consumption, the lynchpin to the lifestyle I know I should have. It’s just so goddamn hard.
There was a time when the contrarian within would lap this shit up and exult in the fact that everybody else quit. But that was my younger self and now, being old and infirm and unable to run more than 1.2 miles, the prospect of following the crowd seems wholly acceptable. Everybody’s doing it, after all. Or not, as the case may be.
Three units of despair? A grossly inaccurate estimate, I discovered to my dismay, when I hit the pavement for the first time on Thursday. This was unrelated to the lack of a blog post, to be clear–that was a planned absence, actually, and I simply forgot to publish the standard “we’ll be back” message. I was seized by shame in the aftermath, you’ll be pleased to know–not enough shame, however, to dissuade me from abandoning you again next Tuesday.
My current capacity for running tops out at 1.2 miles, and I’m frankly amazed it’s even there. I remember crossing the half-mile mark during my inaugural jog and thinking, Holy shit, I’m ready to stop right now. I persisted, though, and finished my mile-plus, but not before thinking how the difficulty ramps up exponentially. That’s why three units of despair won’t cut it. It feels more like six units, and whereas I once placed value in how quickly I’d be able to finish the 5K, I’ve lowered the bar to just being able to complete the damn thing.
I could walk it, of course. It’s naught but a personal goal to make it to the end without stopping. Part of the challenge lies in the fact that the 100-up technique seems to require a lot more effort. It used to be so much easier to hurtle forward with minimal consideration for form, you know? Here, too, I’m choosing the harder path. Certainly there’s an element of self-inflicted duress here. But is that not the very definition of recreational running–a self-made crucible of suffering?
I’m out of runway. Took my sweet time, uh, mentally preparing for the 5K, put it off, put it off some more, and borrowed even more time using sloth as my only collateral. But now, with the event only six weeks away, inaction is no longer an option. You may recall the training regimen called for an eight-week commitment, so I’m already in the hole. I’m behind, and the race hasn’t even begun.
The last time we spoke on the subject, I described 5K as “three units of ugh.” I’ve since refined my terminology and the proper phrasing is “three units of despair.” More important than the wording change, however, has been the hard data I’ve slathered over my brain to propel me to action. I’ve employed Google Maps to calculate the exact mileage of different loops in the neighborhood. Practiced the 100-up. Set my sights on “college weight,” that mythical, bygone target, 20 pounds in the distance.
Training begins on Thursday. I realize exercise is only part of the equation, and diet is also important. Honestly, though? Not going to happen. I only have so much to give! Were I more responsible, lunch today would’ve consisted of a salad and flax seeds or some such shit. Instead, I downed a Screamin’ Korean sandwich and two fistfuls of fries. At the time, I wanted to honor the fusion nature of the restaurant, but the only thing I combined, I guess, was the unhealthy with the egregiously unhealthy.