Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I fell off the wagon. My name is Tania and today I ran for fifteen minutes.
Don’t tell the Mr.
The new-ish pair of trainers was the final straw. I’ve spent the last ten years being a Sooky La La – grumpily, doubtfully looking around for an alternative exercise high. Nothing beats running. Just ask this lady and this lady. They talk about that place you go once you find your rhythm: the zoning in to the thud of your stride, the beat of your drum; the zoning out – letting your mind run empty, the ideas come.
I’m three years overdue for the prescribed knee replacement and staying in old lady denial as long as possible. High impact, jarring exercise has been delegated to the distant days of youth (someone find me a violin).
Some years back, I found an outdoor pool, lap-swimming almost-replacement, but had serious issues pulling off the chlorine-green hair look. Cycling is always too hunched over and strangely claustrophobic; walking or cross-trainers or steppers are all low impact ‘goodness’ but, to me, high on yawningly boring. Still, when it comes to going to the gym, rowing is the absolute PITS. It takes the big, fat, cake. I hate rowing.
Rowing may be the answer to my prayers. The challenge is to love it. Two weeks ago I could flail about for five minutes before my forearms exploded. Today I lasted twenty minutes. I caught the whiff of a ‘zone’.
’Course, within a swig of a water bottle, I was on the treadmill chasing down the real thing. I’m not even remotely within spitting distance fit of what I used to be but, (weirdly), running is like riding a bike. Same easy stride, same easy rhythm: fifteen minutes of heaven.
My knee is killing me. Don’t tell the Mr.