Rulk, Interrupted

Well, it’s happened.  I’ve officially  made a category for exercise/weight loss on this blog.  I suppose since I’m supposed to be writing about my life, and much of my life is about exercise/weight loss, it’s appropriate.  But, still, sigh.  I thought maybe I could pretend my life wasn’t about losing weight, but alas, to thine own self be true and all that.

The inaugural post for this category is about a workout that didn’t, well, work out.  I got home today and suffice to say…I wanted to run.  Now, since I despise running, this posed a problem.

I should rephrase that first sentence.  I wanted to be a runner; I wanted to bound, lean and lithe, down the street to my perfect IPhone mix, building up a nice sheen of sweat, a pleasantly pounding heart, my dog trotting neatly at my side.   I wanted the workout, the high, without the painful knees and tight chest and stich in my side.

So, how does a non-runner solve such a dilemma?  She rulks.  For those who didn’t catch my previous blog entry about this new workout word, a rulk is a run-walk.  Since my ‘hood is hilly, there’s a good rulk, about a 2.5 mile loop of hills.  When I rulk it, I run the downhills, and walk the uphills.  Simple enough, right?

Yeah, well, the universe had other plans for me tonight.

Problem 1:  Music.  Stretching requires a song that doesn’t make me want to dance, and I eventually found one while my dog danced on her own, eager to be off. I found my second song, told my IPhone genius to build me a playlist, and off I went.  Three minutes later, the first song ends and Peter Cetera comes on.  Seriously, IPhone? How does Kenny Loggins lead to the Glory of Love?  This happened 3 times, prompting a stop each time, because I am not skilled enough to change songs while running/gasping for breath.  Eventually, I found my music (who knew that fringe classical makes good running?), but by then I was 2/3 done.

Problem 2:  Dogs.  Or more specifically, dogs that aren’t mine.  Twice, I nearly faceplanted as dogs allowed to roam their front yard charged at Sadie and I as we trotted through.  Sadie, of course, had to cross in front of me to greet the charging canine; hence the nearly faceplanting. Newsflash…there’s a leash law in Fayetteville for a reason, folks.

Problem 3: Trash cans.  It’s the night before trash pickup, which means the sidewalk is an obstacle course.

Problem 4:  My dog.  Oh, no, Sadie’s not off the hook.  It’s uncanny how alike we are – she  sleeps all day, like I would if I could, she gets grumpy if we don’t walk, she loves junk food and turns her nose up at spinach (for the record, I appreciate spinach, but if it wasn’t good for me, I wouldn’t eat it).  Apparently she also hates running.  I swear, that dog did everything she could to stop my forward motion:  peeing every 5 seconds, acting like she’d never seen a squirrel before, insisting on sniffing every single blade of grass.   And of course, by the end of the rulk, when I gave her permission to range about and sniff, she trotted amiably at my side, glancing up every few seconds as if to say “See?  I’m the best dog ever. You know I’m the best dog ever, right?”

The end result was that I got my sweat, I got my heartbeat, but I didn’t get the high.  I was grumpy when we got back, until I pulled off my headphones and turned to look at Sadie, who gazed at me as if to say “Ok, you won that one.  Phew.”