(no subject)
There are many reasons why I love running. The most important one being my subnormal swimming ability. I'm no Michael Phelps but there is a million things out there with more grace when you put them - water and offending subject - together, including a hydrophobic penguin. My redemption is my awareness, and I've always been too self-conscious to even try getting better at it. My time at the pool is simply 2x10 minutes of 'peng' time, front and back, before scooting off. While the sun beat some colours into me, I oogle at guys who do laps, radiating unconcealed murderous envy and I envision the quickest way to be like them would be reincarnation.
Now, how subnormal am I? If you are one of those who have expressed great amusement or mirth at swimmers who do the stationary breaststroke, which by all logic, should be beyond the bounds of possibility, I will dutifully confess I have perfected the impossible. Furious activity is no substitute for effortless form, I feel like a beached whale, hapless and fat.
So while I'm all bitter and resentful of my non-talent, I'm pretty smug about my running. I cannot do marathons or half-marathons and 10km races are still stuff of legends, at least I'm moving. I get inappropriately high when I weave past oldies and I run extremely competitively after 12-16 year olds, deciding pointedly that it's time they know who they are up against. I tell you, it's inconceivable - to be able to feel the full enrapturing exuberance when you overtake someone at swimming while busy trying not to choke on chlorinated water. It's the only thing that keeps me going, to get back to my salad days.
Today, after a 4.5km jog on the Park Connector, I decided to do some interval training, doing 100m sprints. On my third set, seeing a random jogger coming by, I opened my strides, in what I would hope would come across as fluid, an undemanding child's play. I completed the sprint. And I almost tore my thigh bones out from their sockets. As the random jogger crawled by me after his turnabout, I could only hope the pain written on my face was hidden in the evening shadows.
It was painful. I was immoblised for 10 minutes. But I felt really good after that. :P It's really a love-hate relationship.
Now, how subnormal am I? If you are one of those who have expressed great amusement or mirth at swimmers who do the stationary breaststroke, which by all logic, should be beyond the bounds of possibility, I will dutifully confess I have perfected the impossible. Furious activity is no substitute for effortless form, I feel like a beached whale, hapless and fat.
So while I'm all bitter and resentful of my non-talent, I'm pretty smug about my running. I cannot do marathons or half-marathons and 10km races are still stuff of legends, at least I'm moving. I get inappropriately high when I weave past oldies and I run extremely competitively after 12-16 year olds, deciding pointedly that it's time they know who they are up against. I tell you, it's inconceivable - to be able to feel the full enrapturing exuberance when you overtake someone at swimming while busy trying not to choke on chlorinated water. It's the only thing that keeps me going, to get back to my salad days.
Today, after a 4.5km jog on the Park Connector, I decided to do some interval training, doing 100m sprints. On my third set, seeing a random jogger coming by, I opened my strides, in what I would hope would come across as fluid, an undemanding child's play. I completed the sprint. And I almost tore my thigh bones out from their sockets. As the random jogger crawled by me after his turnabout, I could only hope the pain written on my face was hidden in the evening shadows.
It was painful. I was immoblised for 10 minutes. But I felt really good after that. :P It's really a love-hate relationship.