As this post goes live I’ll be crossing the start line in the City to Surf, a 14km (8.7 mile) run through the middle of Sydney. I’ll be walking it with my mum, dad, and two sisters. I’ll be cold, nervous, thinking ruefully of how short and infrequent my training walks were, and trying to balance adequate hydration with infrequent toilet stops.
I’m sure my stomach will be tight, and I’ll be wondering, “Why the hell am I doing this again? I’m overweight, unfit, lazy and unathletic. I’m going to be walking non-stop for the next two to three hours. There’s this thing called Heartbreak Hill to get over. My calves are gonna cry and I’m going to hate this!”
So why am I going? Spending the carefully-guarded cash to fly down and more cash for the ludicrously expensive entry fee, spending today on four different types of transport until my butt feels like wood, oh-so-carefully packing enough clothes to get through but not so many that I can’t fit them in my carry-on because now you get charged an extra $10 each way if you have luggage? Going through all this expense and hassle and logistical difficulties in order to participate in an activity that sounds like mild but continuous torture?
Because I want to know if I can. Because we’re going to do it together. Because I gotta.
This is who I am now. I’m someone who consciously chooses discomfort over comfort. Five years ago, this would never have happened: I had my cosy little world and job and relationships and no desire to choose pain over pleasure, ever, for any reason.
Thirty-one years old and I finally am beginning to understand discipline and the joy of discomfort. Some skills I learn even slower than I run, but in both cases I’ll get there eventually.
Go be uncomfortable today, dearest. And tell me about it in the comments, so I can check my email halfway up that damned hill and be inspired.