Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Lots of
people talk about how amazing they feel after going for a run, I presumed it
would be the same for me first time out. All I can say is that those people
must have this mysterious thing called “fitness”. I lack this somewhat. I think
in the final few minutes “I am literally dying” came into my head, and the
phrase “final few minutes” may have been referring to time on this Earth as
well as time out on the run.
I’m using the NHS Couch to 5k plan, which takes you from
doing no exercise to running a stupid distance in just 9 weeks. Lots of people
have been singing the praises of the programme, and the podcasts that come with
it, that combine tracks by bands that aren’t Take That but want to be, with the
soothing tones of Laura.
Now, I don’t know what I did to Laura, but she remembers
it and she wants to make me suffer. She sounds all sweetness and light in my
ears but she made me run, and I’m not very good at running. Or exercise. Or
movement. When the program said Couch to 5k, I was hoping that somebody was
going to come and pick me up from my couch and carry me 5k. Apparently you’re
supposed to do it yourself.
I started off well. The alarm went off at 6.30, and I got
up. I feel like this part is important, because it shows some degree of
competency as a human being. This feeling will not last.
It starts with a 5 minute brisk walk, which I quite
enjoyed. If only all running could be walking. But no, Laura decided that I
should then run for a minute, and when Laura tells you to do something in your
ear, you do it. You don’t want to let her down, and she doesn’t want you to be
able to breathe. So I ran for a minute, then she gives you 90 seconds to walk.
It sounded so easy on paper, and it would definitely be straightforward to
anybody who had done any exercise since August. The first lot was fine, but
then she makes you do it seven more times. That’s eight minutes of running!
Roger Bannister could have gone two miles in that time! At the end I was happy
to still be on my feet, although my feet seemed less happy about the
arrangement.
It didn’t help that I don’t know the back roads of
Kenilworth too well, so I managed to get a bit lost on the way back and it
meant my five minute warm down turned into a fifteen minute wander down a road
I desperately hoped took me home.
I got back in and spent the next fifteen or twenty
minutes sitting down, drinking water, eating raisins (the only healthy thing I
could find in the house; I figured following what could only loosely be
described as a “run” by eating three chocolate bars was probably
counterproductive) and deciding that exercise is bad for you. If it’s supposed
to make you healthy, why did I feel like it had killed me?
I get to do this twice more this week before moving on to
more running next week. Laura’s coming for me, and she hates my muscles.
(Although let’s be honest, it’s probably more like muscle).
If I don’t survive the next one, I want it known that I
didn’t die doing what I love. And Laura will pay.
Rupert Sprint
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