I'm only up to almost 2 miles (and at least two-tenths of those miles are spent walking and trying not to DIE). My knees are slightly achy, my shins hate me and my chest is thinking of burning my sports bra in protest. But I'm doing it. I don't LOVE it. But I'm doing it.
For a person who has always thought of serious exercise as a mostly spectator sport, this is a real revolution in thinking! Being on the dark side of 35 and possessed of a genetic history of heart problems is an excellent motivator. So is the sense of pushing through and doing something I really didn't think I could do.
(Blurriness not due to speed, but a rather poor attempt to take a picture of my own foot, which I lack the coordination to pull off effectively)
I may not look glamorous doing it and the weight isn't falling off like I'd dreamed it would, pounds and pounds laying in my wake as I pound out the miles, but it feels.... kind of good. And in deference to the serious eye-strain I might inflict on others, I do try to run after twilight (and after homework, booksbags, baths, etc. for the kids) when my huffing/puffing, sweating like a pig, ancient ipod packed with uncool music (okay Tina Turner will ALWAYS be cool, the Captain and Tenille.... eh), running shorts uncomfortably bunched by thighs that are NOT toned and slender and a crazy dog darting in front/behind due to the slow pace won't cause anyone to drive up a tree.
It's worth it. The sweat, the soreness, the commitment to doing it 5 times a week. Even if I set small milestones (I can make it to the mail box... the third pine tree up ahead.... the curve in the road.... the light pole at the end of the drive...) towards the 5K goal.
I'll get there..... eventually.