What a long slog it has been. About six months ago, after riding old faithful one last time – around the Dolomites, as it were – I stopped nearly all physical activity apart from breathing. Since moving to London, I don't think I've got my heart rate above 80 even once. Let me, for the sake of argument, ignore the numerous indoor soccer sessions, as that much fun can't possibly count as exercise.
In any case, the other day I signed up for the Imperial gym. It's the first time in a good ten years that I submit to the will of cold, heartless machines. Frankly, I hate gyms, but I have a goal. It's not for losing weight, and I don't believe getting sweaty and smelly will score me more dates. No, certain events are staged in April that might require my full physical fitness. For that reason I endured an hour of circuit training on Tuesday, the first in what might be a series of sessions if I keep my motivation high.
It was only 24 hours later that things were taken to a whole other level. The sun, shining mildly on central London, saw me jog the periphery of Hyde Park. A seasoned long-distance runner colleague from lab had managed to pry me from my desk, and for half an hour I got to see the park in a new light, savoring this oasis of green, light and air in the heart of the city.
Now my calves are decidedly sore, but I've started the course towards reinventing myself as a runner. As with so many nascent projects, I'm all excited and thrilled to go. I hope that, in a break with tradition, the sparks won't fizzle prematurely like so many times before. Keep on running.
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