I am not naturally disposed towards running. In an evolutionary sense I was NOT the guy who chased the elk to the point exhaustion and then stabbed it with the pointy stick. I was the guy who thought it would be a good idea to jump onto the back of the Woolly Mammoth from an elevated position with a flint tipped shiv and whose survival was (generally) only ensured by an overly dense bone structure, an above average coating of meat, a thick cranium (with which to head-butt those that vexed us) and about half a gallon more blood than was actually required.
My ancestors definitely did not select for mental acuity. In the first person shooter sense, I am the tank… Which to be completely honest I always thought was the least glamorous of the FPS roles… requiring only the capacity to endure (mostly bullets).
Still I suppose I should be happy that I served a purpose… although in modern climes its harder to offer up these traits as a desirable skillset.
In any event, when I reached the top of the hill near my house this morning (at a distance of exactly 2.5km from my point of origin) I decided that I actually hate running. It was a moment of liminality.
I don’t think I’m going to do it anymore. I’m old now. And old people shouldn’t be running up hills… its bad for them.