A couple of weeks ago, I took up running as a hobby. For an hour every day, I go outside and run, praying that I don't keel over in a dead faint and am able to make it home. When I began, I was barely able to do one and a half kilometers. Now I run 10km.
I've been trying to get into running for a long time - years, really. My parents pushed me to run back when I was only 12 or 13 - when I first began getting fat. Back then, I hated it. I never pushed myself, and I tried to run as little as I possibly could, walking for large parts of the track. Now, I have this odd, love-hate relationship with running. I hate it right before I head out - "I don't want to go running today, it's tiring and I'll get blisters on my feet," I think to myself. Then I go out and run because honestly, what's life if your soles remain un-blistered? After an hour of doing the bare minimum that can be considered running, I come home soaked in sweat and giving off an odour that would have a wet dog wrinkling its nose.
The thing is, though, by the time I get home, I'm glad I went running. I'm usually incredibly tired, and I can only just about carry myself up the stairs into the bathroom to take a shower, but mixed in with the tiredness is a strange pride - pride that I managed to run the distance yet again. I know my feet will blister, and I know that by the following morning, my calves will ache so much that amputation at the knees seems like a more attractive alternative, but it will be worth it.
The tiredness lasts for about an hour for me. After that, the endorphins kick in and I get incredibly energetic. The boost in happiness is incredible, and all of a sudden, I'm not tired - I have energy to spare. I may have gotten four hours of sleep the previous night and spent the day dragging my feet to all my appointments, but one hour after my run, you'd think I caught fifty of my allotted forty winks.
The other really big attraction for me in terms of running is that it lets me prove to myself that I can - that I can run 10km when I thought I could only run 8 and that I can run 12km when I though I could run 10. It's an incredible feeling, being proved wrong by yourself. It's a friendly reminder of how much you can achieve with two legs and a strange fondness for being unable to walk in the morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my thighs have healed from the last bit of exercise I put them through, and the streets are a-callin' my name.