Does This Mean I Am Against Running?

Absolutely not! I am not against running. In fact, I love running. I want to run more and more, farther, faster. However, it's too late for that. Age, weight, time have all made a trip to the Olympics nothing but a dream. I'm that bad runner that wants to be a good runner like an anti-hero is a bad hero who wants to be a good hero.

A good runner, to me, is a runner who jumps out of bed, dressed and ready to hit the pavement. That's the runner I would like to be. Running effortlessly with sweat droplets slipping down my face as I breathe in and out. I stare intently toward a goal somewhere in the distance. Wearing those short-shorts, of course, each perfectly formed stride of my muscular, vein-popping legs drive my body onward. Wait, wait! That's not me.

Reality is me dragging myself out of bed, struggling to pull on skin tight, compression pants, black, of course. Doing so requires grunting and pulling and an argument in my mind. "Stay home today. It's cold. It's dark," my lazy self screams. "No, I need to exercise. This is the only time I have today to run," the practical side says calmly. I finish the ensemble with a loose t-shirt a sweat-stained ball cap and an overly-technical sports watch to track my effort.

So, I go. I leave the comfort of my home and I drive toward town. I park my car in an empty parking lot and begin walking. Five minutes pass and I pick up the pace. I'm running, slowly. Cars pass and I pray no one I know recognizes me. I pull the ball cap down a little more over my eyes. The pants keep the jiggling to a minimum, I hope. My chest is heaving up and down, struggling to breathe comfortably. This is how I warm up the muscles.

I turn left down the side street. Less traffic here but obscurity costs me. This street has several inclines. I push myself up the hills. Just a little farther. On the downhill side I pick up the pace, making up for lost time. I repeat this sequence on three more side streets. I made it, half-way through. My legs are numb at this point. If I am running, and I am sure I am, my legs don't know it. They are on automatic pilot.

The stretch of grey sidewalk between me and my parked car is a beautiful sight. I can see it clearly in front of me. My car parked in the empty parking lot. It seems to beckon me to keep going. Just a little farther. Great reward awaits me. Then I am there. I start walking again. Every inch of my skin tingles. My shirt is soaked with sweat. I did it! I ran. Leaning against my car for support, I push the buttons on my sports watch. There it is, proof.

2.1 miles, 30 minutes. Wow, that's so slow! I am the anti-runner.

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