I hate running
I hate running. There. I said it.
I don’t mean I dislike it but I really hate running. From the changing of my attire into that damn constricting tight bra (simply because I know I’ll be frustrated peeling it off for a shower) to the rest of the experience.
I don’t understand the adrenaline. I’ve never gotten it. I don’t understand the hype of accomplishing a run.
And yet, I run. In school, I was running at least 4 miles a week. Even when I went to the gym, I always did about a mile on the treadmill just to warm up my muscles.
Then two years ago, I went, in Kirk Lazarus’ words, “full retard” and signed up for a marathon. A full 26.2 mile sun-down marathon that was going to start at 12 midnight. I should have really heeded his warning of “never go(ing) full retard”. When I was training for the marathon, I was clocking 12–16 miles a week. I wasn’t really thinking. I just ran. The only thing I was thinking of really was how I was going to get home, shower, and curl under the covers to cry after each run.
On the night of the marathon, I stood at the start line and said a prayer, asking God why I decided to be an idiot. During the entire marathon, I was cursing and swearing at myself. I stopped for a while and forced myself to think of my steps and breathing. Didn’t stop the colorful words in my head, as if my brain’s mode of protest was to turn into a drunken sailor. So I tried switching to positive thoughts. They got as positive as, “It’s such a beautiful cool non-rainy night for a peaceful run. F*** this, give me a thunderstorm so I can cab home. Now.”
At 3/4 mark, my playlist was telling me, “You better run run, run run (MBLAQ’s ‘Run’).” My feet suddenly defiantly stopped and started walking. I knew I was done for. The rest of the marathon saw me walking and jogging just to finish.
Once I passed the finish line, I walked for a few more steps before collapsing to the ground, cursing at myself once again. Never. No more. I went home, contemplated taking a scissors to my running gear just so I could shower easily, then finally escaped under my covers, ready to start sobbing.
As with most people who complete their first marathon, I posted it on Facebook and Instagram. The “likes” and “comments” were insane. I had never seen such activity on my feed. Everyone was full of praise and admiration. I felt good for a while and wondered if I wanted to better my timing next year. By the next night, I was all aboard the train to Nopeville with a tub of ice cream in front of the telly.
Close friends always ask me why I run. And my answer is the same. Firstly, weight reasons. I’m not fat but I’m not skinny either. Running is one of the few cardio exercises that I’m able to constantly tweak. One day I’m speeding up slopes or stairs and walking down. Another day I’m doing interval training. On some days I focus on bettering my timing for a certain route. On others I look for new longer routes.
Secondly, it’s something I can do almost any time, any day, any where, regardless of the circumstance that I’m in. It’s convenient, more so than cycling (I cannot cycle #failure_in_life) or swimming.
I probably only like the after-effects of a run just like the after-effects of any exercise. So only the other day, I’ve started my hunt for a new convenient cardio.
Because I really hate running.