HOLY CRAP. Running is a NIGHTMARE. I consider myself athletic; I ride a bike five or six times a week, race frequently, and take care of my body. Just a few weeks ago, I rode a hundred freaking miles through the mountains. When I saw “30 Minute Run” on my training schedule for yesterday, I thought it would be fun and different. Perhaps a little awkward and creaky since I haven’t run in several years, but certainly not bad.
WRONG. SO WRONG.
I started feeling awkward the moment I had to get dressed using a wardrobe of nothing but cycling clothes. Spandex shorts with visible chamois pads, Sock Guy cycling socks, and colorful bike jerseys with multiple back pockets may work when one is actually on a bike, but for jogging down the road, I would look like a douche.
After trying on several possibilities, I settled on a pair of very old (we’re talking circa 7th grade back in ’96) exercise shorts, a black bike jersey, and a pair of tattered running socks that were the only pair remaining from my running days years ago. I strapped on my iPod and sneakers and headed out, feeling unenergetic but assuming that thirty minutes would be quick and painless compared to my typical 1-2 hour training rides.
MORE WRONG.
Within the first minute of running, I realized that a house key and a heart rate monitor might go unnoticed in a back jersey pocket while riding, but thumped heavily on my back with each step as I ran. Then the shorts started riding up and the jersey felt constricting as I flailed my arms around. I huffed up the street steadily, but by the time I hit the nearest intersection and checked my clock, I was hurting and sweating and horrified to see only six measly minutes had passed.
Things got a better for maybe ten minutes, despite running blindly along a dark road, until I started to climb a long, gradual hill. Another runner passed me, wearing a headlamp and blinking rear light, and I tried to stay just behind him and his safety lights while we jogged up the climb. That worked for about eight seconds, until the guy (who ran like that damn faun from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe) dropped me like I was dead and trotted off. I was left in the dark, plodding along in agony. Then there was the part where I tripped, crashing into a curb in a tangle of flapping limbs.
By the time the thirty minute mark approached, my ankles and feet were throbbing, my legs felt heavy and sore, and the pain in my knees made it feel like they were going to explode or dislocate. It got so bad that I finally stopped and, upon touching them, realized both knees were trembling wildly and hot to the touch. I tried jogging a bit more on and off, slowing each time the pain in my knees became too much and finally settling for a brisk walk. I also dabbled briefly (and humiliatingly) in skipping.
The whole experience was a rude awakening. Evidently being able to ride a bike fast in no way prepares one for other demanding physical activities. At least I now know that the next time I’m being chased, I’ll need to pause for a moment to locate a bicycle.
Like everything, you’ve got to ease into it!