But it is so damn good for my weight loss goal. The funny thing is my legs hurt more when I run slower than when I crank up the treadmill and start to wobble all over the place. Okay, I have some control of my arms when running (unlike when burning food) because I tend to look more awkward than Forrest Gump racing across America if I do not attempt to keep them still, but geez, I cannot control the bobble head that begins when I start to bonk.
For those of you that have never, ever done anything remotely athletic or are one of those people to claim to be some sort of athlete, like a cheerleader for instance, and you never were, let me clarify “bonk.” I’m slightly worried your minds fell into the gutter. Bonk sounds dirty. However! This is a clean place of literacy, wash your foul eyes with soap (or saline solution).
Bonk: the condition when an athlete suddenly loses energy and becomes fatigued, the result of glycogen stores in the liver and muscles becoming depleted. One could also refer to this as “hitting the wall,” but the word “bonk” is so much more fun to say aloud. You know you just felt compelled to do so.
Anyway, when the bonking begins, my head suddenly feels as though there is no neck. Instead, I feel as though there is a small spring between the cranium and my spinal cord, allowing my head to freely move all over the place. You think that looks awkward? Add ear buds attached to a bright white cord slashing through the air in the same motion and I look like an 80s hair band concert reject. Especially since my hair is neither teased nor bleached to death. I am an Aveda salon snob, which I think runs in my family.
Dude, I tangent so much it is not funny. I feel like someone should hold a carrot over my face in front of the laptop in order for me to have any direction. And by carrot I mean Godiva chocolates. That is motivation for a girl on a mission to get fit! And utterly, sinfully counterproductive.
Back to running (another segue to return to topic): it sucks. But I find that every person I meet that is passionate about something actually hates him/herself or something about that sport which they claim to be diehard, hopelessly in love with…and that makes absolutely no sense to rational people that eat food when they feel emotional. How can one be passionate about something and hate it?
Easy: while you suffer through it and your inability to be exceptionally awesome at the sport is soooo embarrassing you wish you could wear a mask while attempting it, it feels so amazingly awesome to have done it at the end. When all is said and done and I am finished with dispensing too many cliches and metaphors in a paragraph, you just feel good. Sweaty, pink-faced, and good. And that is what makes it worth it for me to run. That is what makes me begrudgingly smoosh my finger on the up-tempo button to get my bobblehead going faster.
So, while I have not fallen head-over-heels in love with the rubber mat of the treadmill and stinky smell of gym rats, I have to admit that I maybe do not hate it as much as I once did. Maybe I actually like a masochism. Isn’t that what being an athlete is at the very root of the whole idea?