Gotta Start Somewhere

     So I guess in hindsight, I should have started this blog a while ago, back when I first started running in early March because I could capture my true emotions of hatred and regret for frequenting the Chik-fil-a drive-thru as often as I did prior to initial training. Unfortunately, it took me a while to start this, so here we are. I'm recalling my first training session after signing up for the marathon, and trust me, I use the term training session extremely loosely. 

     The session consisted of me getting on a treadmill, chock-full of pre-workout, ready to run a marathon pace on day one. After all, how hard could this crap be? Al Roker ran a marathon, and I looked like (insert fast person's name here) compared to him. Anyway, I probably looked something like this:

  

     I don't remember exactly how far I ran, but it was probably somewhere around three and a half miles at a roughly 10:30 pace, slowing to a walk for .05 miles every mile. I remember this because I was watching the mile counter on the treadmill move like I was waiting for class to get out on a Friday. My form, if you want to call it that, was this atrocious trot where I ran using solely my calves. My breathing was sort of like a woman giving birth. It was very fast paced, very shallow, and similar to hyperventilating. It may have been the pre-workout but I'm pretty sure I was on the verge of a heart attack. Actually, I'd say it was kind of impressive. I never really got into any sort of rhythm and my mind was focused solely on getting off of that hamster wheel for humans. I tried to motivate myself by listening to very loud Ke$ha, but even my glitter laden dream girl couldn't give me the mental prowess to keep pushing or enter any sort of calm mental state. 

          At the end of the run, I was sore, and the stairs back up to my room were akin to climbing Everest. Even my lats hurt. I congratulated myself, for I had turned running into an anaerobic sport because I used my embarrassingly out of shape triceps as those walking weights that moms use. Here's a picture in case you don't understand my imagery (I'm not an English major, get off my back):

     I had made the decision to wear Nike Pro Combat compression shorts that day, and the raw mess which was my thighs prevented my from getting out of bed that evening. I don't even think I showered that night. I'm pretty sure I had my roommate just heat me up a hot pocket and bring it to my bedside. I woke up the next day with cinder blocks for legs and I had to leave my room ten minutes early to make it to class. Okay, maybe like two extra minutes, but I want some damn sympathy. Day 1 of marathon training, we'll chalk that bad boy up to a loss.