Runner's High

I am not a runner and I never will be.

In fact, I've only really been running for about 3 weeks, and I wouldn't even call it running. All but once, this "running" of which I write has been on a treadmill in an air conditioned gym with a fan blowing in my face, a bottle of water at my side, and the combined physical distraction of a panoramic view of the East River and a television set. (The other time was the just-shy-of 1.6 mile jog around the reservoir in Central Park for which I was grossly under prepared -- including no water and no ankle brace...though yes knee brace.)

I'm not even going to say I like running, because I don't.

But I finally understand it.

My joint ailments aside, I feel great after I run. Not right after I run, but a lot after. Once I realize that my heart rate is better than it's been, it makes it worth it. When I realize that the 20 minutes I start my workout with no longer feels like a chore and that I could easily make it 25 or even 30 minutes -- or at the very least, raise the rigor -- I feel fantastic mentally about my physical state.

And it makes me sweat. And while I am not one to care to exude masculinity, there is something very satisfyingly masculine about doing 220-pound leg presses and sweating enough that wiping down the machine actually does something.

I still hate to run, and I will probably only run in the park again from thugs or ex-girlfriends, but I appreciate it.

Kind of like Opera...

But that's for another blog post.