I hate running. And I love it.
The hardest part of running is that moment when I'm standing in my kitchen after a long day of work, staring at my running shoes and thinking that I deserve a day off and a nice cookie.
Then I put on my sneakers and go. The first mile is easy. With my music in my ears, I settle into a nice rhythm. Around 2 miles, my knees feel a little sore and I start wondering what the hell I'm doing. Why did I decide to run again? It's too hot, I'm too thirsty, I could be watching Modern Family and eating Chinese food. I'd do anything to be able to stop running. It's stupid and I'm stupid and I hate it.
Then I hit mile 3 and that sense of accomplishment sweeps over me. I'm almost home. I can do it. Maybe I've tripped and skinned my knee, maybe I took a wrong turn and had to backtrack a little, maybe chest hurts and my shins are throbbing. It doesn't matter because I know I can do it.
When I finally get home, sometimes after 3.5 miles, sometimes after 5, and I'm stretching my sore, tired muscles, I realize how glad I am that I finished. At that moment, running and I are in love. I forget how much I hated it only a couple of miles ago.
Until the next day.
Writing is a lot like running. Only hard work and perseverance will get you home.