I Hate Running, But I’ll Keep Doing It Anyway
The little joys I found in the dullest and simplest exercise known to man
I’ve always hated running. I say that as someone who constantly played sports (football, gymnastics, biking, futsal, skateboarding, and even karate for a hot minute) growing up, unable to sit still for two seconds. My mom used to say that I “couldn’t walk because I had to run” when I was a kid. I know a few of those sports involved running in some form, but as long as it took place inside a game — being a part of something bigger that was constructed around elaborate rules and skills and other elements — I was ok with it.
But just running? I couldn’t imagine anything more futile than that. Boring, bland, unexciting. What’s even its point? Endurance? Give me a break.
Running isn’t sexy or cool. It’s hard, that’s what it is. You can admire someone for doing it, professionally or otherwise, but you’ll never be jealous of them. Sorry, but kids always wanted to be Michael Jordans and Ronaldos, not Usain Bolts (no offense to the Jamaican super-athlete).
I won’t lie, two decades later, my opinion hasn’t changed much. And yet, about three months ago, I started running. Well, let’s be precise, jogging is the correct term (trust me, there’s a difference even if you’re a layman…
