Two things I learned today in my 3.1 mile "jog" around Prospect Park in the borough of Brooklyn, New York City;

 1) EVERYONE passes me.

 2) I jog like an elderly couple trying to have sex in a confined space. It is truly the stuff of nightmares. Imagine, if you will, a varicose vein'd shank'le wrapped around a liver spot, be-spotted, backside. Undergarments from a bygone era half off, clinging to the last vestige of passion before senility steps in, the mild soupcon of urine and face powder. Squeaky orthopedic shoes. It is literally that scary.

Seriously. How the fuck did I get here?

I turned 44 in July of 2015. I weigh 230 and am 6 feet tall. My belly is distended from a life time of drinking and eating rich foods. I spent 15 years cooking in New York kitchens and my feet, knees and back are shot. The last time I had my blood pressure checked (after 3 weeks of blood pressure meds) my BP was 130 over 90 (down from 150 over 110). Not a pretty picture indeed. I get winded walking up a flight of stairs, I still barely eat my veggies, my mood hovers just above mild depression, my doctor tells me I may suffer from sleep apnea, all in all things are a shade above bleak. And now this. The indignity of being the out of shape guy staggering around the park like a sot who has lost his way home.

I would love to try and draw a comparison to Falstaff, but the only similarities are our poor diets;

"If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked!" - Henry IV 

Falstaff may be a fat oaf, but he loves life and operates tirelessly with an exuberance that just won't be snuffed, b'damned. I am usually too beat to do anything other than smoke pot and play Fallout 4. Or practice my Ukulele whilst inhaling a bag of Cheetos (crunchy). That and I also am intrigued by ice cream. Did I mention I am in my mid-forties?

So I guess the initial question is rhetorical in nature. How could I not get here? It's run or die at this point or insert workout regime here or die. And though I truly love nothing more than to self-deprecate, it was actually a not so terribly unpleasant experience. In fact at moments (and I clung to those moments like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood... or in my case a fat man clutching a slice of pizza) it was....meaningful? Because believe me it was never really pleasant, but there were visions of pleasure or perhaps the me-to-be that I saw and clung to.  Oh and there was that woman with a Harvard sweatshirt that smiled at me while scampering past. For, though I don't believe in god, she had an angels countenance that made me smile and lightened my steps.

And my steps needed lightening. After the first half mile my feet felt like I was running with bricks tied to 'em. I walked to the park full of anxiety of how far I would make it before stopping to rest. 10 feet? 100 yards? 1/2 mile? I almost quit before getting there.

When I started, adopting a boxers, shuffling, road-work gate, I felt terrible immediately. I gave myself goals; "I'll stop at that tree and walk.".  Low and behold, I got to the tree and kept going.  "I'll stop at that bench.". Kept going.  "I'll stop at that homeless guy (what is he doing out here IT'S 32 degrees?!?).". Kept going.  You get the picture. The only promise I made to myself is I would walk the hill at the end.  I would not even try it.  I would build up to THAT over the next few months. But when I got there, I kept going. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.  All the way to the top. Proud does not begin to describe.

SO that's it.  Post one. Day one.  I feel sore, but a little bit buzzed as well.  I will try again tomorrow and then break until Monday.   My goals are 3 days a week right now.  I will keep my 13 + minute mile and concentrate on the moments. The me-to-be. I hope to post after most runs as a journal of sorts for me and as a laugh for those out there that enjoy my misfortune. I hope it starts to come more naturally, the running and the writing.