the run of death

I know this entry is slightly postdated, but that's what happens when you have to work 50 hours a week. Last Saturday, my dad had the brilliant idea that our family needed to bond. Well, not bond, per say, but have a common experience to complain about. So at 8:30 a.m., we were huddled with thousands of other Tri-Citians at the base of the Cable Bridge, waiting our chance to trot over the river and through the non-existent woods to a finish line 5 kilometers away. At first, I was fairly nonchalant about the whole activity. Sure I griped and moaned for an appropriate time, but I was actually sort of excited. I like doing large group sporting activities, plus, I knew I got a sweet free shirt out of the deal. I thought to myself, you were a two-sport varsity athlete and a dancer and a frolicker when the moment struck, this should be a walk in the park. (pardon the pun, though the race was through back roads of Pasco so it doesn't quite fit.)

Then I realized that those days were three years ago, and by the first half mile I was pretty much ready to die.

My sister and I (who, in my defense, was a varsity athlete in a much less distant past) decided to run the first part. Then the combination of our lungs about to burst into little tiny shreds and our legs screaming for asylum slowed us to a walk. We were so beat that we ended up walking the majority of the race, and finished in the last 10% of our age group. To put our patheticness in perspective, an asthmatic dog being dragged by its owner crossed the finish line before us. Needless to say, I'm realizing that this strange thing called fitness doesn't just transfer from your slim and trim high school body to your new and not so improved post freshman-15 self. Bummer.