I do this every year. Every year at this time. I don't know what it is. It can't just be the weather because I did it in Rwanda, too, where May had no meaning but just that: May.
Every May, I decide that I should be one of those people who runs. You know, a runner. I should be a runner, and I will start today, and then I will run every day and when people ask what I do for fun, I will say, "Oh, stuff. And I run." This seems like a good idea, every May.
I put on running clothes. I sat around for a while. Then I started running. Running is a relative term. I started progressing very slowly down the road with my legs moving in a running motion. I planned to run for twelve minutes, because a friend of mine in Rwanda said that her brother, who is, I don't know, a coach or a personal trainer or something, designed a running program in which a person runs twelve minutes a day for a week and then adds three minutes a day for a while and then... I forget. Regardless, I'm pretty sure it started with twelve minutes of running a day. Fairly sure.
After seven minutes, I met my cousins on their bikes. They live a couple of miles away but were out enjoying the evening. We talked for eight minutes. I started my slow motion running again and ran for 5 minutes, and then felt good, so I kept going until it had been 13 minutes. (In case you are counting, that's 20 minutes in all.)
I felt good. I felt strong. I am a runner.
I was hot and sweaty, so I rode it off on my bike for ten minutes. All of that together constitutes actual exercise. I am not just a runner, I am a triathlete! I run and I bike and I... whatever that other thing is. Swim? Well, I didn't do that part, but I did the other two.
I came back to the house and drank three glasses of milk and a glass of orange juice and ate two popsicles. I'm still thirsty, but I can't actually get out of this chair. Ow.
Every May, I decide that I should be one of those people who runs. You know, a runner. I should be a runner, and I will start today, and then I will run every day and when people ask what I do for fun, I will say, "Oh, stuff. And I run." This seems like a good idea, every May.
I put on running clothes. I sat around for a while. Then I started running. Running is a relative term. I started progressing very slowly down the road with my legs moving in a running motion. I planned to run for twelve minutes, because a friend of mine in Rwanda said that her brother, who is, I don't know, a coach or a personal trainer or something, designed a running program in which a person runs twelve minutes a day for a week and then adds three minutes a day for a while and then... I forget. Regardless, I'm pretty sure it started with twelve minutes of running a day. Fairly sure.
After seven minutes, I met my cousins on their bikes. They live a couple of miles away but were out enjoying the evening. We talked for eight minutes. I started my slow motion running again and ran for 5 minutes, and then felt good, so I kept going until it had been 13 minutes. (In case you are counting, that's 20 minutes in all.)
I felt good. I felt strong. I am a runner.
I was hot and sweaty, so I rode it off on my bike for ten minutes. All of that together constitutes actual exercise. I am not just a runner, I am a triathlete! I run and I bike and I... whatever that other thing is. Swim? Well, I didn't do that part, but I did the other two.
I came back to the house and drank three glasses of milk and a glass of orange juice and ate two popsicles. I'm still thirsty, but I can't actually get out of this chair. Ow.
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