I think I hate running.

It is only enjoyable when I consider it as a finished act. Then, I finally relish the feat of having ran a rather far distance. I enjoy my new slight of mindset when I find a coffee shop six miles away. My brain puts that distance in check— I could get there on my own two legs instead of using the crutch of a vehicle. If a dangerous man pursues me, I feel assured believing I could outrun him. I'm forever free and safe because of these two attached, trained, non-electric legs, I guess.

It's funny, or cruel rather, that running is miserable almost all the time. Either the lungs, heart, or legs beg for respite, typically from the first step. Rarely do I have a "good day". In fact, the existance of good days makes reality worse. It would be better to have crushed anticipations from the start, rather than wonder if I might have an excellent run, only to find within the first two minutes that it will be uncomfortable.

Often, my run proceeds as such: Right before I begin running, I hear a voice in my mind mandating how long I will run. So if I've predetermined that I will run 6 miles, the fact that I am tired and upset within 0.5 miles makes the run seem unsurmountable. Yet, barring injury, I finish my intended mileage. I finish what seemed impossible.

This sounds like an exaggeration as I write this in my comfy chair. But still, I remember being out there on that beach boardwalk, thinking with a mind as clear as the day, Given how you're feeling right now, you can't possibly run more than two miles .

My subconscious has not accomodated nor learned from these repeated experiences.

From running I have found more pain than comfort, more obstacles than ease.

For these reasons, running continues to be a rejuvinating activity that teaches me about goal setting and my own psychology.