Tonight I did my first one-and-one — one minute of running for each minute of walking — since my knee injury healed. (Previously I was doing two minute of walking to every minute of running, so on average you could hardly call it "running" at all.) It went pretty well, considering it was thirty-two degrees with a Humidex of thirty-nine. My knee was hurting a little bit, but I babied it and I'll ice it tonight if I remember.
I noticed I'm not getting terribly out of breath on these runs, probably because I am running really slow. I breath fast, but it's not that desperate, panting, bile-taste-at-the-back-of-my-throat breathing I remember so well from phys ed. Ahh, phys ed.
Incidentally, my friend Michelle, who was my real-life inspiration to start running, is training for her first half-marathon, and is documenting the whole gory process on her running blog. Michelle is in my choir, and we got to be friends because she laughs at my smartass comments. (Laughing at my jokes is a very short path to my heart.)
When I found out she runs I was a little surprised, because I always thought runners were kind of... different. Athletic. Jockish. That runners were perhaps some entirely different species that I could never fully relate to. Since I was pretty sure that Michelle is my kind of people, I had to reconsider my perspective on runners, which made it possible for me to seriously consider running myself. And here I am, with Michelle cheering me on.