Last saturday afternoon, after approximately 3,562 attempts at getting C. to join me for a run, it finally happened. Sure, the attitude was something like “I’ll run this one time if that’ll shut you up about it” but the fact is that he laced up his gym shoes, picked a route, and headed out to Titirangi with me for a run/walk/run/walk/walk some more/run/swear that we’re never running anymore/run a bit more/walk/run/complain about how stupid running is/run/walk.
He didn’t hate it as much as I thought he would. After all, I was out running with an asthmatic boy who hadn’t run in a very long time (dude never ever has to catch the bus) and who insists on telling me that cars have been invented so people don’t have to run.
In my very first run by myself, a few years ago, I ran a shameful 700m before thinking “screw this”, turning around and heading back home, coughing my lungs out and thinking that the only way I’d ever exercise again would be if TV remove-lifting actually became a sport. On his first attempt, he managed over 2km (possibly 3km, didn’t really track it that accurately). So virtual high five to him! Now I wonder if this experience will ever repeat itself. Stay tuned.