I went for my first-ever run on my 30th birthday. It thought it would be fun, but it turned out to be the opposite.
I decided to jog to a bridge 10 kilometers from my family cottage. Big mistake. By the time I reached my destination, it felt like someone had unscrewed my kneecaps, poured sand into the holes, and then screwed my kneecaps back on.
Also: each time I took a breath it sounded like a family of mice was playing accordions inside my lungs.
I’d made the classic beginner’s mistake of going out too hard, too soon.
At least I was running in a beautiful place. Lake Kennisis, Ontario – a place I’d write a novel about one day. But pretty scenery doesn’t make running any easier. Nor do hills the size of the CN Tower.
After that first run, I didn’t lace up my sneakers for a week. But running is a bit like eating olives. You’ve got to try a few before you discover that you love them.
There I am, years later, after learning how to run properly. My knees still hurt a bit after hard efforts, but nowhere near as much as they did that first day. As for that family of accordion-playing mice, I evicted them from my lungs years ago.
This is a blog about how a lazy guy (me) went from being a non-runner to a serious writer, and also from being a non-writer to an Ultra author.
And hopefully it’s a blog about how you can do the same.