Here's what happened. I've always liked running, but generally, straight running isn't too much of a high. Put a soccer ball into the mix, I'm good. Throw up some hurdles and add some competitors? Golden. Tell me to beat the boy in front of me? Done and done.
Then Rachel started running marathons. (I don't know what's wrong with her. I think it's some undiagnosed mental illness.) I've recently hit the long-distance running stride myself -- and my idea of long distance is 5 kilometers. I got stressed out about a 4-miler when I first started. I mean, there's no sense in being ridiculous.
But then, after my last 5K, I found this long-distance running group. I started going. My first time I ran 7.5 miles. There was this one incredibly painful 10-miler. 7.5 miles in the snow. 6 miles downhill followed by a crazy dip followed by another 3.5 miles.
Now I go to the gym and while I'm kickboxing, I think about how I could be running. I spent 10 minutes lifting weights this morning and an hour on the treadmill (7 miles on a hill course, if anyone's counting). I get annoyed with the bike and have virtually stopped swimming unless I'm nursing some injury. I just want to run. A lot. I'm planning a 10K (!) next month.
Somebody help me. But not Rachel. I'm pretty sure she'd just feed the problem.