107kg. 30ish% body fat. Fatherhood came for me in a big way. I’ve always been prone to fat gain as a skinny-fat sufferer. But in the first 20 months of my son’s life I’ve put on roughly 15kg… That’s grim. Lack of sleep, stress, convenient meal choices, indulgence and self-medication with alcohol are all culprits.
I’m in the process of turning it all around. Not just my physique – but my life. And one such way is daily running in spite of my excess baggage. The intention is twofold: improve body composition and build discipline around starting my day with a positive habit that I fucking suck at. Actually, there’s a third significant benefit too. No one forced me to get a working dog breed (though he’s very lazy by the usual standards of a Kelpie/Border Collie) and that fucker needs a run – even if it’s only so that he can spend the rest of the day sleeping.
My daily running commitment is still very much in its infancy, but one thing is already clear to me. – You know how running sucks balls? Well, it sucks even more when you’re lugging around a fat ass, moobs and a couple of muffins to top it off. But having said that, calling what I’m doing ‘running’ is charitable. Plodding would be a more apt description. There’s no spring in my step, no gliding along the pavement, no rhythm and certainly no runner’s high. Just 107kg of man dough lumbering down the street like a rhinoceros falling over its own feet. And god forbid the pavement dares to deviate from flat terrain – a minor incline feels like a personal attack. The first km is always spent coming to terms with yesterday’s DOMs and bargaining with myself for an early finish. – But I don’t negotiate with terrorists. I’ll tell you who is gliding along the pavement with a spring in his step though, my smug dog Archie who watches me struggle with relentless pity while he runs rings around me.
In another life I was a decent runner – at one point hitting a 22-minute 5K and sub-50-minute 10K. Well, that was like 25–30kg ago. This morning it took me 47 minutes to do my 5K – fkn grim, I know. Though I think an argument could be made that running a 50-minute 5K is almost more impressive from a discipline point of view than running a 20-minute 5K. Because you’re doing something you fucking suck at for 50 minutes, rather than something you’re good at for 20.
The fastest I’ve gone since my return is a 40-minute 5K, but I always pay for it the next day (like today, for instance – hence the 47-minute plod). Because my legs just get so fucking sore from lugging my lard ass around. Every day I go out with the intention to perform, but there are good days and bad days, of course. I’m not worrying about optimisation and things like that I’m just getting it done everyday until I can comfortably run a 30-minute 5K, and then a 50-minute 10K. Only then will I change up my approach.
Add something for the end similar to what you’ve described. Like – once the overwhelming relief settles, and my wounded pride from running so slow subsides, I do feel a profound sense of momentum that carreis over into the rest of my day. From having deliberately done something so awful when I’d rather be snoozing. And on the bright side, I know it can only get better from here. Running can be extremely satisfying and rewarding once you do start gliding along the pavement, but I’m a fair bit of mileage and lost kegs away from that for now. In the meantime it’s the plodders life for me.
Cheers.
