I hate to run.

I went out for a three mile run on Wednesday after a day of rest.  

I was looking forward to this nice, short, easy run.  I mean three miles?  No big deal.

I was looking forward to the running ritual.  I was excited to feel the cool wind against my face as the rhythm of my shoes hit the pavement, keeping time with my smooth, connected, effortless breathing. I planned on getting lost in blissful thought while my body moved into the comfortable ease of running.

This is what I was anticipating.  Not what happened.

Within the first block from my apartment a sharp shooting pain exploded from my left knee.  The rhythm of my running was interrupted by my uneven gasps of breath.  After another couple minutes I am wondering which of my fifteen blisters is burning the most in my right foot.  I have a headache.  My thighs are sore.  I'm going to slow.  That car almost hit me.  I want to stop.  

And it has only been half a mile.

So I kept running.  Obsessing over all the terrible things I plan on saying about it in my next blog entry.  Criticizing the 63 year old wearing green swishy shorts who just passed me, effortlessly.  I consider slowing down to ease the pain.  But the slower I go the more sensitive I am to the pounding sensation I feel in my body each time I put one foot in front of the other.  

I think I'll have someone body slam me continuously. This might be a better work our then running.  

And it would be more enjoyable.

The slower you run, the longer you have to be doing it.  So I decided to not slow down.  I pick up the pace.  I push through.  Then the runs over.  Thirty three minutes later.  That time sucks.  Really, really sucks.  

I hate to run.