Bracing myself, I unwillingly tow my protesting body to the starting point. Equipped with nothing but apprehension and a deep sense of foreboding, I start locomotion once the whistle shrieks to life. The first part is usually the easiest, loping around on full stamina usually is. Contract, relax; Contract, relax, goes the leg muscles, tugging on the bones with nothing but cartilage and forcing them to move forwards.
At the end of the first round, slight fatigue has set in. The constant breathing rate has disappeared; shallow, irregular breaths pierce the air two at a time. I start to lose some sensation from the kneecaps down, but it is merely the first round; it is too early to stop.
By the third round, I am barely running straight any more. Sweat dribbles down my face and leaks into the corners of the eye, stinging it with harsh saltiness. This is totally disregarded, however; the exhaustion in my legs is enough to act as an anaesthetic for the burning sensation in my eyes. I can feel my heart beating a violent tattoo against my throat; lactic acid builds up and further tires the muscles.
I start on the fifth and final round with great difficulty; every fibre of my being is screaming in agonizing protest, 'Stop now!', and nothing but the thought of finishing is driving me on. To heck with perseverance and stamina, pure primal rage is what carried me through the fifth round. Invisible hands close tightly around my throat, constricting my windpipe and I gasp for breath to no avail. The very air I was struggling to take in was smothering me, I could feel the fog enveloping my brain while waves and waves of nausea roiled over my body. Hands flailing wildly, desperately, I finally crossed the finish line.
Someday I would really like to spend a minute with the person who thought of this. And when that moment comes, I will have my sledgehammer ready.