Run Time

I took a jog the other day. The first one in my entire life. I always feel like watching me "work out" has to be hilarious. Recently, I had the chance to play with a puppy that had yet to grow into its legs. She was a Bernese Mountain Dog, a huge breed with bear like paws. She ran in a broken half-step best described as a stumble-gallop. At certain points she did not move her joints, but instead quickly thrashed across the carpet, swaying her hips and moving her static legs. That should give you an idea of me running.

Of course, I did not run the entire two miles. I jogged for a three minutes and then looked around to see if there was no one around me. When all clear I would simply walk. Sometimes I tried to be clever about it. Pretending my cell phone was ringing or the MP3 player was acting up. "Stupid machine! Now my heart rate will go down. Oh, better ease into the next sprint."

I just realized that I don't necessarily have the discipline to write a full blown short story. Oh, I can write up some asides and vignettes, but it is damn hard to create characters. Good characters. If anyone here has noticed a push towards more non-fiction and notes of journalism, then they are all on purpose. I mention this little confession because I also lack the discipline to jog. Exercising au natural requires the need to keep a constant beat. I shouldn't need a particular good riff during a song to keep me going. There are only so many times one man can hear "Highway To The Danger Zone."

I can only blame myself, but my jog proved much "higher impact" than anything I had done in a gym. The following day my entire body felt like hell. After my initial jog, I also tried my hand at small engine repair and lifted up a hundred pound outboard motor for a two-hour tinkering session. That is a whole other post, but, seriously, I was beat. Sore muscles are the worse feeling. That feeling of "Hey, I just worked out! Hooray for my heart!" feeling last until you take a shower, which hopefully is really soon after you are done running. But sore muscles last for about three days. Legs seem to buckle under you and thighs become coiled ropes, taut and stressed like dock ropes pulled too far. My ropey arms should not have these many aches and my chest seems to pull up and into itself. As a struggling writer, I realize that cliches like "hurt in places that you did not even know existed" are weak. There seems to be cosmic justice when you realize there is not better way to describe what you are feeling.

I think I will stick to the indoor gym. Of course, at this point I am not in the situation to pay for a gym membership, even at the local YMCA. That damn song mislead me. I'll try something here in the apartment. I wonder how thick the downstairs ceiling are and whether the neighbors own a gun...

Peace!