Saturday: I ran-walked on the treadmill for two miles. (I know: somebody give me a medal). Next to me was a dude with one of those round, hard Santa Claus bellies and I felt a certain kinship toward him. (Turns out he didn’t feel the same way and was not interested in a post-run chest bump. Maybe next time.) After about seven minutes my loose, squishy joints, my pelvic muscles, my hips, my butt and my back all began to ache. But I finished because if there’s anything I’ve learned as a runner, it’s to ignore my body when it begins to snivel and whine. (I really only pay attention to my body when there is a puncture wound or a dangling limb.) I like to think of these little exercises in pain as study dates for the final exam:
death child labor.
Sunday: I took my Peter Griffin-like physique on a leisurely walk on the three mile fitness trail that surrounds my gym. By the time I got home, the aforementioned joints, pelvis, hips, butt and back were all “speaking to me” again.
Sidenote: Shelby wrote a fantastic post about listening to your body, so I’m not trying to re-create it here, but the idea is that listening to your body is overrated. Maybe your body is more responsible than mine, but if I were to listen to everything my body told me, I would spend 98% of my days on the couch, smoking pot and eating container after container of cream cheese frosting.
Eight and a half months ago, I felt like a failure if my mileage wasn’t what I considered fast enough or far enough (based on some arbitrary formula I plucked out of thin air). Now I glow with pride because I walked three miles without stopping. (Although in all honesty if there had been a bench along the trail, I would have sat on it.)
And I feel like it’s not the actual pregnancy that makes running so difficult so much as just the extra 30 pounds I’m carrying (okay, and those bastard round ligaments). You know how you feel when you try to go running and you’re carrying a little holiday weight? Imagine that holiday weight is a bowling ball strapped to your mid-section. And let’s face it: I was never that great a runner to begin with. I’m not the type who can just take a bowling ball for a run with me and somehow adjust. But who knows? Maybe after this hiatus I will come back and be great. (WHY DON’T YOU LET ME BE GREAT?)
Anyway, the nebulous and muddled point that I am trying to make here is that running hurts, and I get that. But running while pregnant hurts in a way that’s not even satisfying or rewarding. So…there must be a reason I keep doing it.
I think that’s all.