A few months ago, I did not run. I was not, therefore a runner. In the last two weeks I've run around 42km. And it didn't feel hard, I'm not seriously injured (although I do have a bit of skin off my left knee from a rocky stumble) and strangely enough I think I enjoy it.
The only thing I can think of analogous to this feeling is once upon a time, long long ago when I used to just swim...and swim, and swim.
I ran the furthest I think I've ever run tonight - around 8.8km - and at the end I felt like I could have kept going. My breathing wasn't overly laboured - rhythmic and smooth, deep yes, but hardly what one would call panting. In every other attempt at hard aerobic exercise (out of water that is) I've given up after a few weeks, telling myself I just wasn't "born" a runner...
But Aristotle was right. We are what we repeatedly do.
