This month requires an embarrassing confession. Up until this month, I had never run a mile in my life. Not that this has really weighed me down or hindered me so far as I can tell, but it does seem a little ridiculous that I haven’t done it. For one, I’ve just never been really interested in running as a hobby. For two, I don’t think my body is equipped to run distances. And for three, I’ve always had a voice inside my head when I run that says, “I’m gonna have a heart attack, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna stop running now.”
Not that I’ve always possessed such a three-pronged rationale. Some of my childhood memories involve me running barefoot down the rows of my dad’s garden. The soft, cool soil felt indescribably delicious beneath my feet. I can remember my dad saying I ran like a deer, and I believed him.
Kids aren’t as kind as your dad, however. I played baseball and softball for years, and I remember one of my little teammates telling me that her mom said that I ran SOOO slow…and this was when I was running as fast as I could! I suppose I got the slow gene. While my dad, sister, brother, and sister-in-law have participated in long-distance races and I trust are/were fast enough runners, my other brother earned the nickname “Speedy” by his coach for his leisurely running pace. The same coach nicknamed me “Speedy, Jr.”
Okay, so playing sports taught me that I resembled a turtle more than a deer. Playing baseball also showed me how incredibly flat my feet were. During third and fourth grade, I played baseball with boys which meant that I had to play in the outfield. Our practice field was strewn with rocks and my poor feet could feel the rocks through my shoes. The pain I had in my feet and legs led to my getting orthotics especially molded for my feet, and these really helped. As any girl knows, however, being told to wear “supportive shoes” is the death knell to footware fashion. For a few years, I call them my “awkward years,” I wore awful high-top Reebok shoes. They were supportive, alright, and ugly as homemade sin. They came in black or white and I alternated between those colors over the years. What preteen girl really has a chance, I ask, when she wears black high-top shoes to middle school, rain or shine, summer and winter. My mom would probably say I developed character by wearing those shoes, and, at any rate, my feet were well-supported. (Thankfully, I ventured away from wearing orthotics and high tops in high school and so far, I’ve been okay. Hopefully I can avoid them until I’m 80.)
Which somehow leads me back to running—that is what I was going to write about this month, wasn’t it? Earlier this year, my super-energetic friend Kristina proposed that, for my year 30, I participate in a mud run event, which would involve running three miles and doing some insane number of obstacles while covered with mud. People actually PAY to do this type of thing. The mud part didn’t bother me; it was the amount of running that made me turn it down. Even so, I decided that I would try running for really the first time in my life on my own. So, with my I-pod cranked up to drown out my labored breathing, I started running. And, for the first time in my life, I ran a mile this month. Not to brag, but I’ve actually built up to 1.1 miles, but who’s counting? I’ve even thought about working up to a whopping 1.5 miles, but my hips are usually screaming at me by mile 0.8 so we’ll have to see about that one.
Month 4 represents a great personal victory--I did something I thought I couldn’t do.
