At the beginning of summer, I had the hope-anticipation that I would ratchet up my running schedule to three days a week. I was making manifest progress, I was aiming at setting a new plateau at a better pace; and since I was freed from the academic obligations and timetable, I thought I could break through to a new, more rigorous routine.
That came to naught. I had more obligations than I had been thinking of, and we went on a couple of holidays, and the weather was sometimes unpropitious, I tweaked my groin muscle, and so on and so forth. But you and I know what’s really at stake: I just plain hate running, and the thought of doing it yet another morning was (in the end) just not on.
This morning I had the now-familiar knot in my groin muscle, but that warmed up and got loose in a short while. The one restraint on my running was my breathing. Jon is visiting with us, and he has COPD, which reminds me that not everyone has lungs that pump copious air in and out, smoothly and quietly. I can run my mile with more or less discomfort, probably doing myself some good by doing this much, and I shouldn’t let guilt haunt me because I wheeze and stumble while others glide soundlessly.