The Struggle with Running

A Possible New Cure for a Bad Day?

This has been a fairly awful week. Several large things have laid me low, but the icing on the cake has been the little things that can really just pee on a person's parade. Stuff like, stepping in dog poop and not noticing until it was tracked all over the carpet, or cornering poorly in the dark and mangling a shoulder, can just tip me over the edge. I already fight daily against the depression that is a side-effect of the post-concussive disorder that came from contact sport injuries and the occasional klutzy moment. Regular exercise can combat this depression, but sometimes I forget that fact. Occasionally, I'm wallowing around in my dark cloud of doom, feeling lower-than-a-snake's-belly, with a super crummy attitude about the state of the world. This is not rational, and days like this kick my ass. I spend them just feeling bad. 

100 miles by March!!  141 by June!

I used to just run when I felt bad. Way, way back before there had to be a ball involved, before I fell into years of soccer, then rugby, then football, and then too many dozen donuts-yes, I used to run.  My teacher in third grade was this super-dynamic guy named Mr. Milliman. He taught us all about the solar system, how to write in cuneiform, challenged our parents to race us in multiplication table tests, and encouraged us to run. He set up a program where we could choose to run at recess and he would keep track and record how far we ran. Everybody ran in the beginning of the year-when it was sunny and warm-then slowly dropped off as they realized running could be hard work-and that it rains a lot here.  A handful of us ran every recess-

1982-tiny kid

rain or shine. For me, it was an escape-an escape from being awkward and shy, and from the early realizations that I was "different". Yes, I did already know I was different when I was 8 years old-and I ran away from it. Even a third-grader knows you can't have crushes on other girls. I felt free when I was running around the perimeter of the school grounds. I felt proud that I was often the only girl out there running. In March, I reached 100 miles during recesses. When we left school in June I had run a total of 141 miles during recess.  Only Travis C. ran more.  He ran 142 miles...bastard. I had been ill one day. Needless to say, I was fit, athletic, and a scrawny little booger after all that running. 

I continued to run when I felt bad, but not in as structured a way as I did in third grade. I participated in track in junior high as an 800m runner-which is essentially a race created by Satan to punish the short-legged people of the world. It's a two-lap scramble around the track. All of us built-near-the-ground, low-riders who weren't long-limbed enough to run the 400m, or fast enough to be in the 100m or 200m races were relegated to the 800m. It was social, and relatively fun in it's own tortuous way.  Then, I hit a bodacious growth spurt that brought the searing lightning bolts of sheer fire to me in the form of shin splints. I entered the 7th grade at 4'9".  I left the 8th grade at 5'3". I was having none of the shin splints bullshit, so that brought an abrupt end to my competitive (and by default) recreational need to run.

Fast forward through all the years of sports that required chasing a ball, to my current state of "blobosity." I'm out of shape. I'm in poor health. I am down and depressed. I need to get moving...now! Also, it has often occurred to me that if the zombie apocalypse, Armageddon, or other disruption of current society occurred, I would be unable to outrun the hordes and would have to cut down the people around me in order to survive.  This doesn't seem very fair since it's my fault I became a regular at McDonalds.

So, today I ran for the first time.  Like for real.  Like faster than a walk. And no one was chasing me. Now, I did wait until it was dark to go out running to avoid scaring small children. (I must remember to double-bag my bodacious boobages next time. They are not helpful to my running form. It was rather like fighting the incoming and outgoing tide with every step... I didn't have them when I was a young runner, and they've been strapped down under my football pads for the last 10 years, so I'm still adjusting.) I ran further than I thought I could. Granted, I only made it about 20 squares of sidewalk before I thought I was going to die, but I RAN.  My biggest problem (other than the saddlebag twins) was keeping myself from running too fast. My body wanted to revert to 800m form. My knees said "OH, HELL NO!!"   Also, there are very few street lights on my block. Last night there was a wind storm and many a branch had blown down. I don't THINK anyone saw me lay down my best four-point landing-complete with audible OOMPH and required expletive-after I tripped on the first branch, but I got pretty light-footed and careful after that. Tomorrow I won't be able to get out of bed, but I RAN.

It takes me 18:00 minutes to walk the mile around my block (don't judge-I only have a 27" inch inseam and these little legs have to flash like the Road Runner's to to hit that 18:00 minutes). I made it around the block in 15:00 minutes. YES!  I felt like a freaking HERO!! I started singing Eye of the Tiger on the last few yards.  My super-nice neighbor startled the shit out of me when he clapped-so much for running in the dark to avoid attention-but the appreciation from the crowd was lovely. 

The best part of it all-I felt better.  I felt great. Other than the mountainous, over-the-shoulder-boulder twins, I felt free again. I felt like I could come inside and write a new blog post like I promised.  So I did. Here is the bandanna for today's run. And now I shall go find the Icy Hot and the ibuprofen. Tomorrow I will try to run again.  I'm not sure I'll ever become a "runner" per se, but as I did not die, and it is the cheapest and most available form of exercise, I think I will be doing more of it.

"Either move or be moved." -Colin Powell