a minute of motivation is worth a pound of cure

It was a pretty simple plan. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. And so on, until I reached the thirty minute mark. It sounds incredibly simple, but when because I hadn't really done much running in almost 5 months, it ended up to be a bit of struggle in those last minutes.

It was the very last minute that really got me. My watch flicked to 11:56, and I dragged my feet into a quicker pace. Timing had cursed me and landed me on an uphill slope for this last push. I plodded along, slower and slower with each footfall but still at a decent jog. I glanced at my watch. 11:57.

I told myself one minute wouldn't matter. My lungs were agreeing wholeheartedly. My legs were applauding the idea. And I almost gave in.

But it occurred to me that if I couldn't push past this one measly minute, then maybe I would never be able to stand for anything. If I couldn't force my legs to keep pumping for a mere 60 seconds, it seemed all too likely that I would never get published, that I would never sell anything I created, that I would never get the job that made me happy, that I would probably soon find myself on another 5 month hiatus from running. It was just a minute. But I knew that my ability to conquer that stupid little fragment of time would speak volumes to me. My feet churned on.

I looked down at my watch again. 11:58.