I Run

I run, but I am not a runner.

Runners run races.  Runners wear watches and care about the exact amount of time it takes to get from point A to point B.  They know precisely how far apart point A is from point B.  Runners know exactly what their best mile pace is.  They wear numbers.  They read running magazines.  All their friends are runners.  They all wear clothing that weighs less than an ounce while covering essential parts of the body.  They can wear spandex without ridicule.  Their legs display unbelievable muscle tone that only comes from running.  Their skinny little bodies fly past you at least partially because they have emaciated themselves so that they can be better runners.  

Aren't you looking forward to running in the Alps?
No, I don't have the copyright to this image,
but I didn't think they'd mind the advertising.

But the worst thing about runners is the smiles...their condescending smiles.  It may be better when they ignore you altogether, as if you didn’t exist.  Or perhaps a quick wave of nonjudgemental acknowledgement.  Soooo competitive.

Why am I not a runner?  Maybe it's because my father didn't beat me like Marathoner Frank Shorter's did.  I had nothing to run away from.  Thanks, Dad.  I could have been a contender.  Perhaps the rest of us should pity the runners, since they may only be running to escape their demons.

My motivation for running is due to a character defect.  Every morning, I ascend that lying piece of crap commonly called a scale.  Though I know it must be lying, it is consistent, and as any politician knows, tell a lie often enough and it becomes the truth.   Complicit with the scale is my wardrobe.  In particular, both my belt and my pants shrink in unison.  I think the shrinkage is due to the humidity, but it does reinforce the misinformation from the scale. 

I have a very large and heavy camera.
And pudgy little feet.

Though I often find the activity cathartic, I don’t look forward to running.  I only do it to postpone that inevitable day when I can run/walk/hike no more. 

I run from my house and back to my house.  I don't drive places to run.  If I got in the car to go running, I'm sure the delay in from getting into the car to arriving at the running spot would provide me with ample time to figure out a diverted route allowing purchase of bacon or ice cream, depending on the time of day.  Or some other tasty treat.  And you just can’t run with goodies in your stomach.

Do not run after consuming these.
Particularly the dog bacon,
included for the enjoyment of all my canine readers.

And it's hard enough to get motivated even without having to deal with driving.  The report from the scale must sustain motivation through a series of activities that get me prepared to move.  The set of prosthetics for daily living must be jettisoned in favor of another suited for activity.  Only the orthotics go both ways.  Socks must be selected for cushioning effect.  Fashion decisions must be made.  Will the red shirt look too dorky?  (Like that ever stopped me.)  Will the green one provide enough visibility?  What is the temperature, and how many layers are called for?  And if the run is to be completed in the morning, during the entire time of preparation, can I refrain from eating while dreaming of omelets and homefries?  

Then there is stretching.  “Never stretch a cold muscle,” is the rule, but are they really cold after all that activity it took to get ready to go?  Maybe just a little...

Finally out the door, the first running step awaits.  POP!  I hear the sound made by forcibly releasing compressed air after withdrawing your index finger from your mouth, and my miniature shoulder-riders appear.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” says Chubby-me, hands behind his head as he reclines in his lounge chair.  “You could go back inside, grab another cup of coffee, a donut, and just relax.  You deserve it.  You work hard enough already.”

“Don’t listen to him,” replies Fit-me, jogging in place on my opposite shoulder.  “You’re all ready.  Don’t waste all the effort it took to get to this point.”

“A short walk might be OK,” offers Chubby-me, sensing that he is not in a good bargaining position.  “Maybe go to check the mailbox at the end of the driveway and come back.  Maybe you’ve won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.”

“Push off.  Let’s go.”  POP! and they’re gone.

The first strides on leaden legs convince me that I should have stretched better, warm muscle rule or no.  Soreness and stiffness make themselves known.  Sometimes the discomfort is from what I did the day before, other times it’s from not doing anything.  The aging athlete can’t win.

I run on the side of the road.  Yes, I know there are sidewalks available, but they are uneven slabs of concrete.  Should I misjudge the elevation of my sneaker, a mis-aligned section can send me reeling.  And if I've been too lazy to use the contact lenses I obtained for just this type of activity, the vanity no-lines bifocals I am wearing make that judgement all the more difficult.  As for the choice between asphalt versus concrete, the knees know the difference.  The preferred surface would be miles of perfectly manicured grass, or better yet, a few inches of pine needles over a bed of slowly decaying humus so the shock of each step is absorbed by the recoiling ground.  Perhaps when I rule the world.

Not so good.........................Better.........................Almost Best.

I also run against traffic so it is less likely that I am surprised by vehicles with drivers who don’t see me.  It is amazing how many of them are oblivious. "Thunk?  What thunk?" says the oblivious driver to his passenger.  "Stop distracting me!  Can't you see I'm texting here?"  

I switch sides on less travelled streets so that one side of my body doesn't wear down more quickly than the other.  Kinda like rotating tires or checking the alignment.

How do you know when you are warmed up?  All the pains are pretty much equal.  But that doesn’t last long, since generally, one particular pain rises to dominance.  I wonder which pain will be dominant today.  Will it be the knee that ended my US Men’s National Soccer Team career?  Perhaps the groin that ended my NHL goaltending career?  The ankle that stopped me from dunking, ending my NBA career?  It probably won’t be the rotator cuff that ended my MLB career.  I’m just hoping it won’t be something I've forgotten due to the concussion that ended my NFL career.

But I push on.  The mind is still ever-so-slightly superior to the matter.  There is pain, but not so bad.  For a while.  Then real pain.  Real pain is a real pain, ya’ know?  But as any dedicated former athlete is well aware, all your youth coaches are there behind you, gently urging you on.  “GET MOVING, YOU USELESS PILE OF DONKEY DUNG!  MY GRANDMOTHER RUNS FASTER THAN YOU.  YOU ARE SUCH A WIMP!  I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO TELL YOU ABOUT WHAT WINNERS DO, BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER KNOW.  I’M JUST GONNA KICK YOUR ASS.  NOW GET MOVING!!!”

Thank you, Coach Anderson, in particular.  

But the pain does not last.  No, without realizing it as you push ahead, suddenly you notice that the pain has subsided and has been replaced by numbness.   Yes, it is the fabled Endolphins...ahhh yes, the blessed output of the endocrine system that was probably designed to keep you moving in favor of being eaten by some poorly conditioned killer mammal.  Or maybe so that you could kill and eat some less well conditioned mammal.  Either way, it is the patron hormone of those who run.

Endolphins...what a great name.  I can see the chemical equivalent of sleek aquatic mammals moving effortlessly through my veins.  And my stride has become longer and less labored.  Halfway through the run, I’m striding, the world is beautiful, and I can run forever!

Endophins in the bloodstream.

I scorn all you Flabbies...I am one of the one percent who can actually run!  Look at me go!  I spy a hefty woman on her porch.  She looks up and sees me whiz by.  Her mouth drops open, because clearly she is amazed at my grace and beauty.  And speed.  I’m sure she can’t believe that anyone can move so swiftly past her rocking-chair perch without the aid of hydrocarbons.

Look at me go!

But such haughty pride should never be encouraged.  The black cat shoots across the street in front of me, and instead of diving for the bushes, stops suddenly and takes a new path, this time behind me.  There is no escape from the harbinger.  I must cross the path.

Immediately I realize I need new shoes.  My usual outside-of-the-heel wear pattern is fighting the alignment of my legs.  I feel a wobble in my bad knee.  Is it structural instability?  Is it serious...should I be running to an orthopedic specialist’s office?  Bipedal locomotion...whose stupid idea was that?  And which is my bad knee?

I become aware of a rising pain in my chest.  Maybe I can’t make it to the orthopod.  This is definitely serious.  Maybe I should be running to the hospital.  Maybe I should try to flag down the next car and catch a ride.  Maybe...

There is rumble deep within and then an unexpected expulsion of gasses.  Suddenly the chest pain is gone.  Was it my Cheerios?  No, this deeper seated, and provides a fine opportunity to analyze the dietary choices of the previous evening.  Salad with light dressing and a single crouton?  That would only have prompted thoughts of, "What burp...was that a burp?"  Not likely in this case.  Second helping of pasta?  That would achieve a solid but beneficial pressure release.  Greaseburger and fries?  I feel ill.  Greaseburger and fries from Mickey D’s?  No, this was not that bad.  That would have caused at least a fluid passage, not the thankfully transitory gaseous expulsion recently enjoyed.

I press on.  POP! Fit-me is on one shoulder...Chubby-me in a lawn chair on the other, eating a garbage plate full of double-cheese, double-bacon double burgers and beans.  

"You know, you don’t have to do this to yourself.  You can walk," intones Chubby-me.

“And lose half the benefit of the run?” replies Fit-me, still jogging on  my shoulder.  “Why would you do that?”

“Heart attack!  Heed the warning!  This exercise is no good for you!”  Chubby-me forces a huge bite of bacon-burger into his mouth.

“Yes, by all means, heed the warning.  The warning that you shouldn’t be eating so much.”

“Ya mead nar-eesh-men.  Don lismen do him,” says Chubby-me as he tries to force words through the burger.

POP!

I push on again.  I’m past half way.  But something is amiss with gravity.  The slightest incline has become a hill.  In fact, there are hills where I was sure there were no hills.  I must be caught in a gravity well.  And the wind that was definitely in my face on the way out has clearly shifted.  Now it pushes twice as hard in my face.  There is no way to get ahead of these headwinds.

My stride is becoming labored.  I am struggling.  Up ahead, I see another woman on her porch.  The mailbox out front bears a name.  A French name.  I can just make out “Defarge.”   As I approach, she looks more and more like the woman I passed earlier.  I has to be the same woman, or perhaps her twin, sitting on her rocker, with a 64 ounce original Coke at her feet, rocking back and forth and knitting.  As I slowly run by, I can just make out  her cackling at my discomfort.  A quick glance reveals words in her knitting.  No wait, it’s a name...Jim Fixx...and she is part way through another...R-A-N-D...

I should have kept looking straight ahead.

I pick up the pace to escape the specter.  I am nearing the end of the 3.5 mile run, but surely the decimal point has dropped out of the distance.  Endolphins, where art thou?  Have you swum away when I need you most?  

POP! 

“All right...enough is enough.  Let’s renegotiate this endpoint,” Chubby-me reclines on his lawn chair while he tosses back a slug from a tall bottle. 

"You’re almost there.  Don’t stop now." replies Fit-me.  I wonder how he get his knees up so high while jogging in place.

Chubby-me balances the can on his ample belly and slides his hands behind his head.  “Why bother?  We all end up the same, so why not enjoy the ride as much as possible?”

“You call wheezing at the top of the stairs enjoyable?”

“No wheezing ever on a trip to the refrigerator.”  I’ve heard enough, and flick Chubby-me off my shoulder with the back of my opposite hand.  His lawn chair makes a scraping sound as it hits the asphalt.  

Fit-me says, "About time...now let's pick up the pace and run an extra mile."  

I turn my head to look at him and ask, "What's the matter with you?  Are you trying to kill me?"  
He hits the grass just off the pavement with a light thud.  I see him roll back to his feet and run under the bushes.

I turn the last corner and the end is in sight.  My non-competitive nature realizes there are no runners ahead of me, so I must be winning!  Or maybe I'm so far behind that everyone else is already showered, dressed and is watching a movie somewhere.  

“No,” I remind myself, “this is not a race.  Though you may once have been something of an athlete, you need to soften that competitive spirit.  This run is only for ME to stay healthy.  To allow me to do all those active things I love to do as long as I can.  To keep the medical professionals at bay as long as possible.  To keep the coughing fits at the top of two flights of stairs instead of one.”

Yeah, right.  Time for the kick.  I’m going to sprint across that virtual finish line and shred that imaginary tape.  Or maybe  I don’t really pick up the pace, but just push harder to keep the pace from deteriorating any more.

Coach Anderson pushes me one whole step past the manhole cover that serves as the finish and then I begin to walk.  I breathe deeply waiting for my body to react to the change.  Can’t stop moving, though it is appealing, or I’m liable to go into shock at the sudden change.  I’m sure I’d curl up into one big oxygen-deprived ball.  Many paces later, I begin to breath more or less normally.  

Only then does a small sense of accomplishment set in, balanced by a sense of regret.  “I’m not doing that again,” I think, but then the phrase, “for a couple days,” appends itself because the run was cathartic.  I know that soon I will feel the positive effects, if I ever stop sweating.

After a little stretching and a shower, I feel good.  Really good.  Yes it was all worth it, because now I can rationalize all that unhealthy food I’ll eat for the rest of the day.  And when others ask what I’ve been doing, I’ll casually reply, “Oh, not much.  But I did run 5 miles.”