After almost a year of not exercising as well as around 6 months of bed rest, and birthing a small human being, today I hauled myself out of bed, dusted off my running shoes, put on my favourite Abba playlist (shhh) and headed off to the lake for a run.
I decided to start with 5km, half of the final distance, which equates to one lap of the lake- part of the route that I will be running on 13 October. Having not done anything more strenuous than carry my daughter or lift a wine glass over the last two-and-a-half months, I thought it was best to start at a power-walking pace.
This is how it panned out, kilometre by kilometre:
1km: Look at me glide, this is so easy, I missed a calling as an athlete, I might do the full 10k today.
2km: Ouch that hurts, maybe I should slow down a bit.
3km: What the hell was I thinking, I could still be in bed.
4km: I am ready to die, goodbye cruel world, my nails are sweating, I could sleep on that bench, the real runners are laughing at me, oh look there’s a dog.
5km: Almost done yeah, woohoo, pumped! Same time tomorrow woooohooo… maybe. Ouch I didn’t even know I had a muscle there.
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