Running Sucks

I went for a run this morning.  I'm slowly getting in shape so I'm not sucking wind like a fat kid with asthma when I play indoor soccer on Thursday nights.  Last Thursday was our first game.  I was pretty pathetic, mainly because I looked like a pudgy, gray haired, old guy who was totally out of his element, which I was.  I'm a decent soccer player when I'm not out of breath.  The other team was pretty good and looked like they played together for a while.  I'm the new guy on my team so I have a lot of ground to make up if I want to contribute in any meaningful way.  So four days a week, sometime around 6:00 am, I hit the treadmill.  It's a lonely place to be, but also one where ideas come to me.  Nothing really did today, probably because my head was screaming at me after 5 minutes to step off the damn thing and get back to work.  Oh, the urge was so tempting,  I could have easily just gone to bed and caught another hour of sleep before the kids needed to get up, but no.  I had to finish my run.  It must have been 5 or 6 times that my finger was on the stop button, but I never pressed it. I let the machine take me the full course of the workout.  I knew that the feeling of accomplishment was going to outweigh the feeling of throwing in the towel.  I was right.
Tomorrow I have another appointment with the machine of pain.