I enjoy running. I don’t generally need someone to force me to run. Having to force myself to run is an infrequent problem. (I’ll admit, it does happen sometimes. And when it does, I will do something else if I have the option. Other times I’ll whine about it but do it anyway.)
So, getting out there running isn’t the problem. What’s the problem? Getting out there for anything longer than 3 miles and anything faster than a granny with a walker. The stress and craziness of the end of the year + various body parts staging a rebellion has resulted in a lack of stamina and a pace not unlike that of a turtle.
So, yesterday, I told myself I didn’t have to go far and I didn’t have to go fast (sounds like my usual slow, boring 3 miler. Yawn.) But what I did make myself do is run the streets that run north/south in my neighborhood. Those streets are the hilly streets. I’m pretty sure the entire run I was going either up or down. There was almost no flat.
In the end, I finished four super slow miles feeling like I’d run a marathon. It was a cool low humidity (for Virginia) day with an awesome breeze, yet I was sweating like I was running in the hottest part of summer. I seriously considered taking off my shirt, but I decided that blinding a construction worker with my fish belly white abs wouldn’t be very nice. I finished the run, completely dragging myself to my house. Hills are hard! As I walked into my house, I was thinking “that was awful.”
Five minutes later, I was all “wonder when I can do that again.”
Hilly neighborhoods = Mother Nature’s high intensity interval workout.
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