Three years, Sixty pounds, and one divorce ago I discovered I was a runner. Not knowing exactly what I was seeking, I stumbled upon it on about the eighth mile of a ten mile run. This was probably the most physical pain I had ever inflicted on myself, on purpose.
It all started innocently enough the previous weekend. My friend Andy, who I had not known very long, and I were at a cook-out with other friends and the subject of running came up. I had mentioned that I had been running for a couple of months, basically because of my recent split with my wife I realized that a Thirty-year-old, fat, unemployed, homeless guy was not very desirable and the fat part was the one thing I knew I could change. Here's how the conversation went:
Andy: What kind of pace are you running?
Me: About ten minute miles. (I just made this up.)
Andy: That's about the same as me, I'm going to do an eight miler next Sunday want to join?
Me: Sounds Great! (I'm pretty sure I had been drinking.)
Sounds Great! What was I thinking? The furthest I had run until this point was two miles, two miles! My first thought was to come up with some way out of this. Honestly though, what excuse could I make, I had no job or real responsibilities. So it was on to Plan B. I figured I could just push a little harder this week and I'd be ready for eight miles on Sunday. By Thursday I had worked my way up to 3 miles, it wasn't pretty, in fact it was down right ugly.
I was ready...
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