I do. I mean, I don't.
I like the idea of running. I love the feeling after a run: it feels like I accomplished something and I deserve a pat on my back. I enjoy the scenery, the music in my ears, the fact that all the thoughts that I have live in a limbo that's destroyed as soon as I stop.
Sometimes I even like the actual running part.
But oh if there are some things I dislike. I dislike the part of thinking about the actual running: not the romanticized idea of putting one foot after the other in rapid succession to feel better afterwards but the gloomy thoughts of having to leave the comfort of my house and go do something I might as well not do. I dislike the weather: unless it's an early summer morning it's either too damn cold or too damn warm. There are times I hate running: nobody enjoys being out of breath, pain in the spleen area, hurting feet, legs and calves.
Still, whenever I can / find the strength to do so, I run.
Because, in some peculiar way, the act of pointlessly putting one foot after the other in rapid succession has some deep and cathartic meaning behind it – a sort of metaphor of what life is.