Day one, I stepped outside with all the confidence of a superhero. By the third sprint, I was hunched over, gasping like a fish out of water. My neighbor’s dog looked at me with what I swear was pity.
For the first few days, everything hurt. My shins complained, my lungs rebelled, and my dignity took a serious hit. I felt like a broken 90s video game character stuck on the “wheeze” sound effect.
I almost quit on day four. But then I remembered that my only rule was to sprint for 20 seconds. Twenty seconds of pain, even bad pain, is over before you can properly panic about it.
