And that is what I did. 25 minutes straight. It wasn't great. It wasn't the hardest thing I have ever done either. I put a towel over the timer of the treadmill, because watching that thing is definitely one of Dante's levels of hell, and I tried to concentrate on the episode of House that was playing and just kept my feet moving. My calves wanted to stop first. Then my quads registered their complaint. And the my hamstrings joined the choir of groaning. In my head, a continuous loop of "just keep going" was playing, synced up with my concentrated breathing. I refused to look at the time, even when I took the towel to wipe the
Finally I reached a point where I had a rhythm going to my step - I had found a gait of sorts. Things were a bit smoother, and my legs were a bit quieter. I figured I must be about halfway through. The episode of House ended, and I allowed myself a peek at the time. I had hit 20 minutes. This was good and bad. I was thrilled to be almost finished. However, it took me almost the entire length of my run to finally hit my stride. Is that normal? It can't be! And if it is, this running thing is for horses and criminals.
At any rate, I finished the run, and for that I am grateful. I attempted to do my leg stuff with the weight machines, but was quickly informed by those appendages that they had done all the work that they intended to do today. So I collected my things and came home, sweaty and tired, glad its over for today, but still with a feeling of accomplishment.