I press the stop button on my Garmin. The data from my run steps upon the alter of Garmin Connect and sacrificed to the gods of Strava.
Or is it?
I don’t know.
I deleted the app from my phone. Whether upload to its sacred halls shall remain a mystery.
My foot hurts. I throw some ice on it.
You’re not good enough. My self-esteem whispers.
“Oh yeah, for sure,” I agree, “I’m a sleazeball. A total fatty,” I say, channeling David Goggins.
My self-worth mumbles something about seeing a therapist and hobbles away.
I check the calendar, sixty-eight days to go, and I’m at ground-zero. I ran 2.5 miles this morning and celebrated like I’d just finished the Boston Marathon.
I’m currently hovering over 10lbs heavier than average. The holidays have been kinda rough on my physique (ie. Thanksgiving, Halloween, Valentines day, Mother’s day, and last New Year’s 2020).
For now, I’m taking it a day at a time. two-and-a-half miles on weekdays, four hours on weekends.
We’ll see how it goes.