Last night, when I was out doing my 10,000-step walk around DCU's campus, I did something I haven't done in years: I jogged. To an outside observer, I must have looked ridiculous: a lumbering fatso struggling to heave his pitiful carcass forward against all hope and gravity. But yes: for a brief while, for a distance of probably less than 200 yards, I did, in fact, move my ponderous ass faster than normal.
It felt strange; I was running flat-footed, my soles slapping the pavement loudly and inefficiently. I finally got a clue and stretched out my stride a bit; that didn't eliminate the lumbering effect, but it did increase my speed and the smoothness of my run. Alas, jogging also brought back a twinge of hip pain—a reminder that I'm still not 100% healed. That said, I might try it again tonight. The pounding heart, the sweat, the breathlessness—all were welcome signs that I was actually making an effort.
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