Today was the third time I went running. And today was the first time I managed to get through twenty minutes without a single panting stop. Which in my case is absolutely fantastic. You see, I’m so badly unshaped (I can’t use “out of shape” here, considering that I have never really been “in shape”), I wonder how my body managed to cope.
I mean, running for twenty minutes is more or less the most extreme thing I can do right now. If I’d run another two minutes, I’d have had such a violent heart attack, I’d have fallen off the track and into the Danube canal, without a chance of a dignified funeral, considering that my body would by now be floating somewhere near the Danube Island, and probably surface sometime in summer, discovered by a 70 year old nudist enjoying the benefits of retirement.
So, yeah, I guess it was time I started running.
PS: The fact that the Danube canal wouldn’t really take me out to the Danube Island may be filed under “artistic freedom”. Just in case you’re like me and take pleasure in correcting other people.