It's horrible, atrocious and most definitely disgusting. It happens to me every single time. I guess it's kind of the reason for doing it, but at the same time it's kind of the reason for hating it. It starts off low, a sort of gently persistent thunk-a-thunk-a-thunk, and builds itself up. At the end, or more specifically just before the end, it has become a cacophony. A mad mixture of pounding and raggedy breathing, the raspiness of a dry throat with a lick of spittle running across a parched lip. The uncomfortable burning in the top of each thigh that burns brighter with every step, the horizon created by the top of the hill. Just further than you know you can run to.
It is most definitely a horrid and sadistic thing.
Then there's the flip side, when that unreachable horizon is met or that burst of speed just before the final point; there's that slight, but noticeable, feeling of elation. Though this is quickly followed by the realisation that that dry, raspy breathing is coming from deep inside. The tiredness now holding tight to burning thighs. The complete and near overwhelming desire to just stop. Just stop. Never again.
And then the next day, it is again.
Things I notice: I hate running. 9 times out of 10 this is the track that my mind finds at the end of a run, this is one of the major reasons I have for actually going out there (reasonably) regularly. To counteract the entire premise that 'if it's not fun, it's not worth doing'. While I still believe that this applies in a lot of cases, it is by no means the guiding yardstick to life.
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