The first time I made a serious attempt at running was on a warm September evening. The river path had finally cooled after sunset. I set out in an ordinary pair of trainers, convinced that three miles could not be very difficult. Twelve minutes later I was leaning against a railing, trying to catch my breath.
It took me a while to understand that the first lesson of easy running is not how to become faster. It is how to accept your own pace. Once I slowed down enough to speak a full sentence—and enough to want to go out again the next day—the whole thing became simpler.
Run slowly enough, and running can stay in your life.
Seven years later, I still have no impressive result to display. A five-mile outing takes as long as it takes. But I sleep more soundly, my back complains less after a day at a desk, and a muddled mind usually settles after a few quiet miles. Those modest changes matter more than anything on a watch.