1.2 measly miles

It seems like everyone around me has been waxing poetic about the joys of running lately. Bloggers, friends, even B comes back from his 1.2 mile run rejuvenated.

I've never been a runner. People literally laugh when I run. Between my pigeon-toed-ness and my all over terrible form, I've been compared to Phoebe on Friends. (If you've been living under a rock or just need a good laugh, you can see what I'm talking about here.)

However, I figured that I should be able to run a little over a mile, no problem. Right? I am the girl who went to weekly spin classes until I was 38 weeks pregnant. I work out with a personal trainer every week. So what if I die a little, complain a lot, and struggle through every workout? It's just running.

We used to run a mile in elementary school. Granted, I was part of what the p.e. teacher not-so-affectionately dubbed "the coffee clutch." We were the few girls who refused to run, or even jog, in gym class. We strolled around the track, gossiping.

But c'mon. It was a measly 1.2 miles. Surely I could do that.

We are starting a program called Girls On the Run at school, which culminates with teachers and students running a 5K together. If I can work out the child care logistics, I'd like to take part in it. If the kids (some of whom are out of shape) can do it, I've got to keep up too.

So on Sunday, after a particularly stressful couple of days battling high fevers and subsequent anxiety, I threw on my Asics and my iPod and headed out, determined. I even remembered to stretch, and then settled in to a comfortable jog.

I got it. The endorphins kicked in almost immediately. The rhythm of my feet hitting the sidewalk, Fergie belting out tunes to pump me up, the wind at my back...I finally understood what everyone's been raving about.

I turned the corner to begin the hill that was the second leg of my run. I immediately realized that I was running out of gas but kept telling myself that I could do this. 1.2 miles. Easy peasy.

Then I made the mistake of looking up at the hill. How had I never noticed the mountain that is near my house?

"Just make it to that sign," I told myself. "You can do this."

My legs and lungs were obviously more stubborn than my mind, however, because I had to take a short walking break. Before long, though, I started jogging again. 1.2 miles. I didn't need to walk.

As I turned on the last leg of my run, my lungs and legs gave out again. Feeling like a bit of a failure, I took another few seconds to walk and pant. I avoided contact with passersby, hoping that one of us was enjoying the spectacle that was me, attempting to run.

Once I was close to my street, I picked up the pace again and jogged back home. I stumbled in the door and collapsed on my couch, gasping. B chuckled and asked how my run was. I was so out of breath that I couldn't answer him. Sweat was pouring down my neck, collecting in my sports bra. My chest and legs were burning. I checked the time and realized that it had taken me thirteen minutes to make it 1.2 miles.

How is that even possible?

And why on earth am I excited to try it again?