I'm the lamest runner of all time. I've been trying my darndest to "be a runner" for the past two summers, but I've been faking it. I've come to love running, but until today I'd never actually, officially run an entire mile without stopping to walk. (I know. This and the fact that I still have Christmas lights up (I KNOW) are my deepest, darkest secrets.)
I'd usually hit about an eighth of a mile before my lungs would just stop. "WE HATE RUNNING!" they'd scream. "HATE. HATE. HATE. We're done." and I'd walk a block, convince the ol' lung-a-roonies to try again and do another few blocks of running. Stop and go for a few miles three times a week. It did not help that Whipping Post had found its way onto my running playlist.
"Good lord, I feel like I'm dyin'" is not the most inspirational song lyric ever penned.
But lately, my legs have been getting tired before my lungs and today I ran possibly the slowest running mile ever recorded. But the point is, I ran it.
And, the first peonies on our street are starting to open up and we're so close to a four day weekend, I can taste it.
No complaints here.