I consider myself to be a fairly fit person. I work out twice a day at least five times a week, I can push a 350-pound sled, and I can deadlift more than I weigh. But I’ve always considered running something I would only do in a post apocalyptic world or if I ever found myself visiting Jurassic Park.
Until the entire world shut down.
Social Distancing in the Time of Corona meant both gyms I belong to were completely closed. I dug out some of my dad’s old Insanity tapes to replace my interval training in the morning, but I needed something to end my day with. So, I figured I would run.
I do the elliptical at the gym for an hour everyday, so I should be able to run outside for 30 minutes right? Wrong.
I spent time putting together the perfect running outfit: Fabletics leggings with cute little cutouts to let passerbys know that, under my clothes, I do, in fact, have skin; a t-shirt with my gym’s logo on it so people will know I am a fit queen; and my new cross-trainers that retail at $199 but I got for $49.99 because Asian people know how to find a great deal. I even had one of those arm bands where you can put your iPhone, so I looked super serious about running. But you can’t fool the body.
As I started to jog, I felt great. I began to envision myself as a marathon runner. I was the kind of girl who exudes health and wellness. I could feel my skin getting clearer, my stomach flatter. I was one of those girls in the yogurt commercials, a woman who laughs at salads. Maybe I could take of yoga, or even Crossfit and compete in competitions across the country. I was a runner now, I was invincible.
Then, ten seconds went by.
And suddenly I wasn’t Maxim Model of the World anymore. I began to feel every bone in my lower body and was concerned they may actually be on fire. There was a pain in my side and I wondered if it was my appendix coming forth to rebel against such nonsense as running for fun. My brain kept telling me to check behind me because if there was no strange white man in a hoodie following me I could probably just reduce to a power walk.
I eventually made it to the end of my street and felt compelled to search around for the frog I accidentally ran over with my car that morning. I needed to remind myself that I, unlike my helpless victim, was fully alive. While it may have felt like I too had been run over by something 4 million times my size, crushing every bone in my body, and pancaking my lungs into the unforgiving ground, I was somehow still alive.
My departed friend’s memory carried me another five feet before I decided if I didn’t stop running immediately, I would need to be helivacced home. I checked my FitBit, sure I had just ran at least 16 miles, only to find 10 minutes had passed. Ten. Minutes.
For the next twenty minutes I varied between running and walking before slumping down at the foot of my steps in my garage ready to learn how I had burned 1,000 calories. Only to glance down and see 221 calories.
What a fucking scam.
Sara Says:
I’m not really sure what type of sadists are running and why they are telling themselves they enjoy it so much. Fuck a runner’s high, I’d rather just do meth.
