Saturday marked the beginning of Week No. 3 of my training for the 5K run in May. Three months from today, I will be running around Lake Harriet on my tanned, muscular legs (or my 61-year-old pasty-white, cottage-cheesy-cellulite legs, whichever show up that day).
Week No. 3 includes 3-minute sprints (up from the 60-second sprints in Week No. 1 and the 90-second sprints in Week No. 2).
The first minute of sprinting is comfortable—my legs are cooperative and oxygen flows freely into my lungs. I feel capable and positive. As Helen Reddy would say, “I am woman, hear me roar.”
The second minute starts to get a little tough. My breathing is a little more ragged. I keep checking the clock. Hasn’t it been three minutes yet?
The next half-minute is painful. And the final half-minute is excruciating. It’s that final half minute that makes me wish I were 20 pounds lighter and 20 years younger.
While I’m at it, I also wish that my I.Q. was 20 points higher and that my bank account had 20 percent more money in it.
And as long as I’m wishing . . . I sure wish my eyesight was 20/20.
Final Report: Week No. 3—running 3-minute sprints. Not dead yet. I’ve stopped using my lavender-scented, lace-trimmed handkerchief to delicately dab at my upper lip, and I’m now using a full-sized beach towel to mop up the drip pools.
As soon as I can run ten 3-minute sprints in a row for a total of 30 minutes, I can run a 5K! Piece of cake! (Cake??!? Did someone say ‘cake’??!!)