Let's see here. I've been breathing for a little more than 44 years now, so you'd think I might have gotten pretty good at it by now.
But noooooooooooooooooooo ... and for the first time since I've been trying to lose weight, I truly scared myself tonight at the end of my 5k class. The assignment seemed simple enough. Five laps of the walking track behind the Y, a trip I've made many times over by now. There were only a couple of catches. No walking, and try to improve your time each time around.
Yeah, OK. No problem. Go ahead and start filling out the toe tag while you're at it, just to save time on the paperwork.
One lap, no walking. Two laps. Three. I'd done a mile and a half just the week before, so I was fairly confident until starting the fourth lap. My legs were still working, but I. Just. Couldn't. Catch. My. Doggone. Breath. I know I must've sounded like a runaway freight train, huffing and puffing and fussing at myself to keep going.
Honestly, my legs are fine. I think I could probably handle three miles and more without much of a problem, but it's figuring out how to breathe that's got me bumfuzzled.
Four laps. Then five. All two and a half miles, at a jog. I did it. But when I reached Julie, tonight's instructor, I couldn't breathe. I hurt all over. Pains were shooting all over the place. She told me to keep moving, and I couldn't. I simply could not regulate my air intake, and it scared the daylights out of me, which certainly didn't help matters.
Get your arms up over your head.
I can't.
Do it.
Finally, I couldn't take it any longer and laid down on the ground, flat on my back. Within seconds, I had my breath back. I had been woozy before -- like every single time I work out or jog -- but this was different. This was just this side of scary.
So ... if you have any tips on how a fat guy can breathe while trying to jog, feel oh-so free to pass 'em my way.
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