Hard Boiled Eggs and 23 Minutes

When I first embarked on this crazy running ride, I had one short term goal: to run a 5K race in less than 23 minutes.

My first 5K race this month was kind of a disappointment because I ran it in slightly over 24 minutes. Sure, it was also surprisingly exhilarating, fun, cold and wet, a chore, an annoying early morning run -- but I am pretty disappointed with my time.

Maybe you're reading this while thinking, "stop being a baby. I would kill to run anything at 7:49 pace." I agree with you. Maybe I am being a baby. Maybe I should be happy. After all, I haven't run regularly since 2002. I only started running two months before the race. All things considered, it was an okay time and I should be happy with it.

However, regardless of how quickly (or slowly, in my case) someone runs, it's always disappointing when they feel like they have left something on the table.

I encountered a similar experience late last night, as I was trying to make hard-boiled eggs. Because I am a completely inadequate and impatient cook, I managed to undercook them. I hate undercooked eggs with a vehement passion.

In this analogy, my first 5K was a hot egg. Yes, it looked delicious. But I found out that it was a runny, yoky little bastard when I opened it.

Now I have to step up to the plate and run like I'm capable of doing. My new goal is to drop a sub-23:00 at the Hot Chocolate 5K in November. Ring the gong because here I come!

I Hate Running

Running is socially-accepted masochism. I hate running.

Unlike some other running bloggers, running and I have a bit of history. It’s complicated.

When I was young and naive, I ran on my high school team. I did it because I wasn’t athletic enough to do anything besides move in a straight line, and I didn’t have enough concentration to follow any coaching besides “go faster!” during an athletic event.

Toward the end of high school, I got sick of running. Seventeen-year-old me was more interested in social smoking, group dates and playing Mario Tennis than spending 4 hours sitting around a track only to spend a few tumultuous minutes in running’s arms. Running cramped my style so I dumped it. Bad.

I got into basketball during the tail end of high school and throughout college. We went pretty steady, although I would dip into a two-miler every six months or so. Each run was enough to remind me why I cut running loose in the first place, so I stayed away. Upon graduation, I realized having access to basketball would be cumbersome. It fell to the wayside too, leaving a hole in my fitness heart.

I dove head-first into my young career and I didn’t have the time or disposable income to spend on a gym membership. And the next thing I know, I’ve gone two and a half years without regularly exercising.

Enter the mid-twenties freak-out.

After turning 24 last summer, I found myself at a point where I could become a complete lard-o (a la Charles Barkley) or I could hope to recapture just some of the athleticism from my younger years. I bought myself a bike and spent the summer and fall grinding gears.

Little did I know that cycling -- as a mentality -- is merely running with a nose job. Zipping along on a metal pole with wheels is a lot of fun but its neurotic groupies and time-distance-pace hang-ups were so similar to running’s.

I was drawn back.

After years of my girlfriend nagging me to pick up running, I’ve decided to throw down.

I have two goals:

1. Work on avoiding a heart attack.

2. Run a 5K in September without embarrassing myself (ie. sub-23:00).

Bad family medical history makes the first goal ongoing. The second should be easily reached. And who knows, I may end up enjoying this masochist bane.

Follow my training and thoughts as I hurtle haphazardly into the running world.