Last week did at least 2km for several sessions. Jacked the old ticker rate up to a racing 171/minute. Boy, that felt good. Compensating for having been careening off the course lately with the Diet, courtesy of those mamak breakfast sessions and Chili's/TGIF/Rahsia lunches and dinners.
I used to run a lot. Physically, that is. Competing, even. Love the rush of adrenaline. The building of momentum, of getting in the pace, from start to finish. The do-or-die moments when the end is near. The giddy euphoria of reaching the red tape at the finishing line.
Run, and run, and run.
My timing mantra : "1,2, buckle my shoe" rhyme.
Rubber soles pounding on the ground. Stadium track. Tar. Concrete slabs. Grass. Treadmill.
Occasionally I still do it these days. But very, very much less and only as a once-in-a-blue-moon session except last week. Competing? Sorry beb. Very the busy-bee. An hour on the treadmill is considered a luxury already.
In a previous life (like during the Paleolithic era) I finished a KL Towerthon in 26 minutes and 29 seconds. Came out a surprised champion in the school cross-country competition. Snagged gold for 1,500m and 800m track events. Held the starting baton for our 4x100m team. Took on the challenge of the local half-marathon.
Gosh, I want to be able to run like that again.