Ten weeks ago, I entered a 5K race. The previous week, I had weighed in at 250 pounds. I’m 5’4″, if the person measuring is being generous. Yeah. It was that bad. Today I weighed 234.
Sixteen pounds in ten weeks isn’t much of an accomplishment by itself, but seeing the number drop is pleasing. My goal is 175. But my more important goal is to outrun my sister in a 5K in less than a year. Not because I’m all that competitive – I’m not. But if I can beat her, I will have achieved the pinnacle of health and fitness given my age and physical limitations. Then, the fight to maintain it will begin.
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I hate running. I truly despise, detest and abhor it. Cathartic? Hardly. Runner’s high? Fiction. The only thing good about a run is the last step.
Ten weeks in, and every day I still have to talk myself out of blowing off my run. Every. Single. Day. But I’ve been more successful making myself do this than any other idea that I’ve tried. This success means that I have to keep going. I plan to live forever, and the better my health, the more pleasant my life will be.
