Why Would Anyone Do This on Purpose?

That’s what I used to think when, once a year, I laced up my shoes and hit the streets because I had decided that running was just the thing I needed in my fitness regime.  This usually occurred in the two-week balmy transition  between dreary winter and brutal summer.  (Also known as “spring” in Texas.) A sort of fitness-spring-fever hybrid, I suppose. 

 

 

And a fever is probably the only explanation for my sudden desire to run.

Here’s what would happen:

1. With care, I dress for the endeavor, eager to feel the cool-edged spring warmth.  I imagine myself striding through our neighborhood  like the model in a fitness magazine I had picked up the night before.
2.  I warm up and step outside.    I’m ready for this.  I can feel that I’m a  runner.
3. I begin, giddy  with thoughts of how far  and how well I will run.
4.  My shoes slap against the unforgiving pavement. The impact jars my body to the top of my skull. 
5. Can this really be healthy for me?  Isn’t something about this supposed to feel good?
6.  I am wheezing, gasping,  emitting sounds that no one under the age of ninety-nine should produce.
7.  Legs trembling,  I bend over and brace myself against whatever solid  object is closest to me. My face is hot. My skin seems to throb.  But I did it! I ran around the entire block.
8.  I stumble home and into the shower, wondering what sadomasochistic goofball coined the term “runner’s high”. 
9. I’m grateful not to be in the hospital.

Apparently, twelve months was the length of time it took  my body to believe that the previous years were aberrations, that this year, I really was a runner,  because I repeated this nonsense every year for several years.

So how did I get to the point of  enjoying running so much that I dream about the day when I can do it again?  I’ll save that for another post.  But I promise, I made it there without self-torture, hypnosis, or a lung transplant.

Eager to run again,

~K

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