It doesn't seem that long ago I could run a six-minute mile. I could still feel the pain in my chest – like a gorilla is giving me CPR – after a run. And the wanting to drink a gallon of water and die part. I remember that, too.
But that was half a life ago, back in the Navy, when I was forced to run. Then I got out and ran less and less, blaming achy knees and an overall hatred of running. Sometime during my wife's first pregnancy, I lost the will to work out all together, though my ability to kill a pint of Ben and Jerry's went up exponentially.
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