Day 1: You've got to be kidding me

It's official - I'm in the worst shape of my life.

I got off of work today at around 6:15ish. I put on my cute lil' running outfit that I conveniently packed with me to work, in the bathroom on my office floor. Stretched a little on the elevator going down - after all , I didn't want to pull anything on my long fucking run.

I had the best intentions. See, I normally walk home from work. I work in the heart of downtown Portland, OR and live about a mile and half away, up a long and relatively steep hill (towards Council Crest, for those in the area). I was planning on running to a track at the base of the hill, which is about a mile from my office.

I didn't make it.

I was cruising along fine for about 15 blocks. Then I started to wheeze a little. Then a little more. I figured that I would walk a block to shake it off. Holy shit. No way. I had to stop. I walked the rest of the way to the base of my hill, telling the track it could go fuck itself along the way. The bottom of the hill served as a resting place, there was nice little area to sit and subsequently lay.

It felt like my chest was caving in. I thought I might very well die right then and there. I remembered what my coach used to tell me, "Hands on your head and keep your chin up," he'd say. "Open up your airway." I was salivating, wheezing (a pathetic little noise, if I may say so) and coughing like sonofabitch. 10 minutes. 10 minutes it took me before the chest pains went away.

RJ Reynolds, I love you, but seriously, asshole, fuck you. Camel Lights, the brand that kicked off my career of wild nights, are officially done for me. If I'm going to take up running, I'm going to have to give up smoking. Bar none.