Posted by
John T.
I hate getting up in the morning. Maybe “hate” is too strong of word…
No, to be honest, it isn’t. I hate it. I’m a night person. I don’t like going to bed at 10. I don’t like having to talk myself into getting out of bed. It’s a difficult argument to win. It’s comfortable under the covers and running doesn’t sound too appealing when the alarm goes off and it never gets any easier.
But I have to get up. There is no other time. Running (or working out), as important as it is to me, is lower in priority than my kids. And my kids need me to coach them in baseball or drive them to a swim practice. I want them to visit me in the rest home when I’m old, cranky and lonely. I figure if I’m around and supportive during they’re formative years – maybe they’ll feel obligated to do so.
However, I can’t go without my daily workouts – otherwise I’ll be prematurely old and cranky. So, in the spring, I start to get up in the mornings – dragging myself out of bed – absolutely hating the first thirty minutes of the day.
But a funny thing happens when I finally do start my run. I start to feel better – even better than when I run at nights. I begin to plan my day – what I’m going to accomplish and how I’m going to do it. I think about upcoming races and goals. I give myself some credit for winning my daily battle of getting up early and getting out the door. By the end of the workout, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself.
When it is finished, I relax on the steps of my porch for a bit and bask in the accomplishment of finishing the run. I’ve done something that day and I’ve done it before I’ve driven to work.
Time to wake up
Posted by John T.
I hate getting up in the morning. Maybe “hate” is too strong of word…
No, to be honest, it isn’t. I hate it. I’m a night person. I don’t like going to bed at 10. I don’t like having to talk myself into getting out of bed. It’s a difficult argument to win. It’s comfortable under the covers and running doesn’t sound too appealing when the alarm goes off and it never gets any easier.
But I have to get up. There is no other time. Running (or working out), as important as it is to me, is lower in priority than my kids. And my kids need me to coach them in baseball or drive them to a swim practice. I want them to visit me in the rest home when I’m old, cranky and lonely. I figure if I’m around and supportive during they’re formative years – maybe they’ll feel obligated to do so.
However, I can’t go without my daily workouts – otherwise I’ll be prematurely old and cranky. So, in the spring, I start to get up in the mornings – dragging myself out of bed – absolutely hating the first thirty minutes of the day.
But a funny thing happens when I finally do start my run. I start to feel better – even better than when I run at nights. I begin to plan my day – what I’m going to accomplish and how I’m going to do it. I think about upcoming races and goals. I give myself some credit for winning my daily battle of getting up early and getting out the door. By the end of the workout, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself.
When it is finished, I relax on the steps of my porch for a bit and bask in the accomplishment of finishing the run. I’ve done something that day and I’ve done it before I’ve driven to work.