I don’t run for exercise. Sometimes I wish I could, or would, because you burn so many calories so quickly, but it doesn’t work for me. I blame my boobs and my brain.
I know, all women have boobs, but my tatas are too big for running. (Note: I am not complaining, I am stating a fact. My boobs are wonderful; they’re just not built for running.) I have yet to meet a bra that can hold the Ladies in such a way that effectively fights the counter-bounce of gravity. To be comfortable, I have to tuck my elbows into my sides and make a shelf for my boobs with my forearms. Couple that with my gasping for air and I look like an asthmatic Tyrannosaurus Rex lumbering along.
My husband runs almost every day. I tried once. When I complained that I couldn’t breathe, he helpfully advised me to count to four as I breathe in and to four again as I breathe out. I tried it and it worked very well: I could breathe and running was easier, but I kept having flashbacks of Lamaze breathing during labor. Also, after two minutes of counting, my brain was bored. Me + bored + sweaty T-Rex = not a happy runner. I prefer to power walk while reading a book.
The only time I like to run is when I play soccer or some other competitive field sport. There’s something about chasing down my prey and stealing the ball that thrills me. It’s how T-Rexes like to run.