May 30, 2010
'Why should I go for a run? What's the point?' I wondered.
So I put my fingers in ears and shouted: 'Lalalalalala, I can't hear you, I can't hear you!' and quickly put on my running gear.
Once faced with this 'fait accomplit' my motivation grudgingly agreed to run a ten miler. But since its completely unreliable I decided not to take my mobile phone with me. A wise decision it turned out, because after only five minutes it started to whine: 'It's hard going today! I really think ten miles is too much. Perhaps you could make it a three miler? Or even better: why not just call hubby to come and get you?!'
Luckily my motivation is more crooked than Don Corleone, and very easy to bribe with the promise of a cup of coffee. And so I managed the five miles to the pancake house in Westendorp. Once there my motivation and I were finally in sync: we both wanted to go home. It still didn't feel easy, but we knew why we were doing it: to get home.
And when I finally collapsed on our couch, I felt the rewards surge through my body: that lovely feeling of a run completed, of a goal accomplished. And above all: the lovely knowledge I could have a Big Mac that evening without facing any consequences.
On the days when it seems unthinkable to go out for a run, I alway do the unthinkable.
Because I know: it's even more unthinkable nót to go out for my run.