The (slacking) Runner’s Confessional

There are few things more motivational than publicly making a grand, almost ridiculous claim (for instance, “I’m going to run in a half marathon in the next 18 month“) and then failing to back-pedal away from said claim with excuses of, you know, the usual stuff: drunkenness, concussion, mind-alter drug ingestion, or temporary possession by an alien demon from the Quarx dimension.  Of course, if I’d someone only made such a wacky claim once and let it be, it might be easily overlooked by others.  But then when you go and make a regular habit of working toward said goal, while even documenting your progress, well, eventually people figure that maybe you’re just stupid crazy enough to actually follow through.

So, of course, then they think they’re entitled to ask about your progress every time they see you.  What unbelievable gall, right?

Which probably would been fine, you know, if you hadn’t dropped the ball so utterly and completely.

Err, that is, if I hadn’t dropped the ball so utterly.

In other words, I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t run since just before Christmas.  That, however, hasn’t stopped friends, coworkers, family, and assorted other torch-and-pitch-fork-wielding members of My Personal Angry Mob from asking me if I’m still running.

Usually when this happens, of course, my first thought is to drop a Batman-style smoke grenade and disappear in the ensuing confusion.

Unfortunately, my utility belt always seems to be with my other bat suit, and since I’ve haven’t been running, odds aren’t good I wouldn’t actually manage to escape before the smoke cleared anyway.  Instead, I’d likely trip over my own sluggish feet and end up curled up on the ground in a fetal ball with my eyes shut, like a kid hoping that if he stays under the covers the monster under the bed won’t see him.

That’s probably no way for a mature adult to go through life.

The reasons why I haven’t been running are as irrelevant as they are varied:

• I have a cold and feel like I’m breathing through a fish tank
• it’s Christmas
• it’s pork-and-sauerkraut day and we have to go visit the family
• it counts as running if I jog from my recliner to the cookie jar, right?
• Oy! so much first-of-the-year work to do
• damned alarm clock was mocking me at 6:15 this morning with that Katy Perry song, so I showed it who was boss and snoozed the hell out of it for spite
• sweet jeebus on dry melba toast, it’s cold outside today
• man, my knees hurt
• gosh, I could go run, but my, um, toenails need to be trimmed
• I’ve got to wash my hair out tonight
• oh, look Honey Boo Boo is on and I’ve forfeited just enough dignity that I might as well watch it
• etc, etc.

See?  Nothing but lame excuses.  So, enough piddling around.  I’ve wasted most of January, and that’s about as much as I can forgive.  Time to get back on the horse, which is to say, into my sweet running shoes and then back out on the street.

There’s a 10k out there with my name on it, hopefully one I can make in the spring.

And I’m not going to have much luck running in it by employing a training programming that includes Cheeto sprints on my couch.

You can bank on it then, I’m going for a run in the morning.  Maybe, wish me luck?  And, hey, if you don’t mind, next time you see me, ask me if I’m still running.

Well, unless I’m dressed like Batman.  But that’s a whole different post.

Pud’n