Yesterday I ran for the first time in seven weeks.
Seven, according to my Nike+ app.
Seven is a lot.
To be fair to myself, it was mostly justified. I had taken about a week off some weeks back when I fell off a sidewalk (don’t ask. Just don’t.) and landed squarely on my left anklebone. Seriously, it was a miracle I didn’t piledrive some bone into the pavement.
So that was my excuse for lo these many weeks.
But I realized over the last week how little I’ve been doing in the way of being active and going, and I was more than a little disgusted with myself. So I ran.
I ran a little over two miles, and I didn’t die. I even ran the majority of the time. I’d say it was a solid restart. And my ankle hurt not at all, so I think it’s safe to say it’s healed.
Anyway, that’s what’s happening here.
I’m not pretending to be great. I’m really slow and normally I hate the entire time I’m out there in the ground – to – galaxy humid soup air, but I feel so great when I do it. Endorphins or whatever, I like it. I count the hours until I can go again.