If you live in the Venice area, please don't be alarmed. That shuddering you felt was not a low grade, quickly repeating earthquake. The rattling of your windows from out front was not some gargantuan jet plane, like a galaxy class strato-lifter, buzzing your neighborhood. And the horrid, death-rattle and wheezing you heard was not the last gasps of an one-lunged asthmatic having a heart attack. That was just me, doing intervals.

I'm going to run the LA marathon. What with my injuries and total lack of conditioning, I'm giving myself a very long time to slowly work up to it. So this was short intervals - just one minute fast pace, 90 second walk. And that first minute of sprinting felt like an hour. How can only 60 seconds eek by so slowly? I swear, getting water-boarded would go by quicker. Eight repetitions later, and sure wasn't any easier. What had been a lumbering, dinosauric plod had become just some dreadful death-march with feet barely lifted higher than the ankles. (the other ankle, obviously. The same ankle would be really weird.)

But I take some comfort in this - it probably won't get harder than this. This is me, starting from years without running or doing any kind of regular intensive exercise. This is me starting from the couch. And it's like...Jabba's couch, the kind that glides around rather than make him actually walk.

Okay, maybe mile 26 is going to be harder. Maybe. But every mile from here is a mile more under my belt. A mile easier to strap on the sneakers, and force my vomitous bulk out the front door and down the street. A mile ...well, faster is the wrong word, because 'fast' and me running do not deserve to be in the same sentence. How about...a mile slightly less molasses-like. In Vermont. In February.

But man. I sure do not like intervals.