Running Away
I started running five years ago, when I found myself in the middle of the French countryside and charged with the care of three children whose ability to belittle and shame me was admirable considering their age. That they despised me was understandable since their parents converted their cherished playroom into my bedroom and deemed it “interdit aux enfants.” These children, whose efforts to send me paddling back across the Atlantic in a one-woman dinghy I chose to regard as just another of life’s many challenges in order to avoid buying a one-way train ticket to Paris and throwing myself off the top of the Tour Eiffel, managed not to dissuade me from pursuing several subsequent stints as a nanny (though I’ve not lived with any family who employed me since). What they did inspire me to do was to run, as fast and far away as my untrained legs could carry me, which turned out to be about 4 miles, the distance from the 57-person village where I was living to the nearest slightly-bigger-but-still-didn’t-even-have-so-much-as-a-boulangerie village.
Ever since I’ve had what we’ll call a casual running hobby, a couples of miles here or there always feeling like an accomplishment and worthy of a metaphorical pat on the back. Any illusions of earning the right to call myself a runner were occasionally shattered when I adopted a running partner whose endurance put my own to shame, most notably a French guy friend of mine who on a couple of occasions dragged me along on 7-mi. runs, causing me to curse him, his country, and my aching, possibly ruined calves.
Even when I have worked myself into a semi-regular running routine, I repeatedly bail out when faced with the undeniable fact that I dislike the act itself. There, I’ve said it. I hate running!
That I submit myself to the abhorrent activity represents the collective effects of the following truths:
1. Running is good for me and will probably make me live longer.
2. I feel better after I run. How I feel while I am running, however, can only be expressed in language I’d rather not employ here.
3. I look better in a bikini. Or at least the good feeling I get after running convinces me that I do.
4. I subscribe to the “no pain, no gain” philosophy and only run because it’s hard and therefore must be, in some sadistic sense, a good thing.
All things considered, I probably didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I resolved to run a half-marathon this year. On the other hand, ignorance can indeed be bliss and can also make it easier for us to do a lot of things we’d rather not. For three of the past four days, I’ve run just over 3 miles at a pace of about 10 minutes. Silence, serious runners! It’s a tiny accomplishment, I know, but when I manage to drown out the tortured cries of my leg muscles, I feel wonderful! Last night, I even experienced a meager yet persistent sensation of bliss during my run. Dang! I actually felt happy as the balls of my feet pounded the pavement and my breathing, though labored, fell in perfectly with the beat of my stride.
I know that 13.1 miles, the distance of a half-marathon, is a far cry from my measly 3 miles Maybe I’ll make my goal, or maybe, like the majority of my New Year’s resolutions, I’ll fall short, contenting myself with having made any progress at all. In the meantime, I’ll just be running, and having a really good time doing it.
