Death by treadmill

Some friends and I have decided to compete in the Tri for the Cure sprint triathlon, which will be held on August 3rd. I am excited, as I have been wanting to do something like this for quite some time now. While I have been working out at the airport "Wellness Center" (read: lil' gym) for a little over a month now, today I officially started my training.

I was given a grueling treadmill workout to try, and try I did. It was supposed to be a 30-minute kick-yer-butt run but ended up being a 20-minute drop-a-lung huff and puff session. I fully intended on completing the full run until I realized that my legs were windmilling to a tune of 6.5 miles/hour at a level 5 incline. In translation this means that I was running to the top of a mountain at a dead sprint.

I envisioned a couple of formidable scenarios: my legs would move so fast I would take flight, or I would completely lose control and there would soon be a Kim-shaped figure thrown through the wall behind me. I decided to throw in the towel and call it quits. I took my sorry spent tushy, scooped up my lungs from across the room, and headed for the shower.

Pushing my body to its limit feels good, but in a backward kind of way. It's like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer so that you can appreciate how good it feels when you're finished. I don't anticipate finishing first in the race, but I do want to finish period. If that means I have to risk being thrown across the room by a rabid treadmill, then so be it. I'll just keep on keepin' on!