Great expectations

The happiest surprise I've had since beginning my fitness journey was simply finding out that I could live through it.  It took months before I felt reasonably certain I could actually do an entire class without a) fainting or b) bursting into tears and coming to a cold stop.  After that, I truly enjoyed the expectation of being able to make a good finish, and that, let me tell you, was a happy day.  No more did I see the upcoming circuit and think, "This will be the part where I fall down dead," or "It's almost cute, how ambitious these trainers are, they'll be so disappointed when I throw up."  Now I could look at the lineup on the board and, although it sometimes made me tremble in my boots, I had enough confidence to think that I really could do it.  Probably.

Then I took up running.

I didn't know that the whole process would start over.  I thought I knew what to expect by now, I thought it would be a simple matter, just to run. I mean, yes it would be work, but it would be very straightforward work.  I will set a goal, I will start and I will finish, I thought to myself.  No if's, and's, or but's.  Simple!  But then I made my first blindly confident (read: dumb-as-rocks-naive) attempt of "I'm not getting off this treadmill until I do X number of miles" and I realized just what I was up against.  WHEN DID MILES GET SO LONG?!?  IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS TREADMILL?!?  I would be willing to bet that Hannibal's troops felt like I did when the Big Guy said, "You're gonna cross that" - pointing to the Alps - "on one of these" - slapping an elephant's rump.

So, after a few times at the YMCA, running my heart out on those God-forsaken treadmills that I am convinced are all broken, I realized that once again, I was in a position where I didn't think I could do it.  The entire time I was on those things I kept thinking, "No way, it's not gonna happen, I can't do this, it hurts AAAARRRGHHH I want off this thing!"  I had visions of my inert, unconscious body just lying on the mat and getting sucked underneath, never to be seen again.  But by sheer cussedness (and channeling my trainers' voices when things got really bad) I've managed to stay on AND finish AND beat my previous time each time I do it, but by God it has been a battle, both physically and mentally.  Exactly like when I first started going to workout class.  Exactly.  It's hard for me to see right now, but I would hope that, like my workout classes, one day I will get on that thing and be strong enough and experienced enough to KNOW that I can finish well, without having to go all psycho-drill-sergeant on myself.

So what does this tell us?  What have we learned from this?

1.  It could be worse.  I could be crossing the Alps on an elephant.  All things considered, I'd rather be at the Y.

2.  Treadmills suck.  And they lie.  But they get the job done, so I'll keep using the &^%$# things.