Runner

Tough, lean bodies in tight-fitting workout gear and bright coloured sneakers.  A few have focused looks on their faces so intimidating, others veer off the path to make room.  Some of us openly want to be them, some of us loathe them, and some of us pretend to loathe while secretly wishing we too were a runner.

If you're at all overweight, the idea of running can be pretty terrifying.  It won't be a hard body with perfectly sculpted muscles and bouncy pony tales that blazes trails through the forest.  Instead, it may feel more like jello bouncing around in spandex sausage casings.  Even in private, the imagery is scary, but to take it on the road and showcase it to everyone?  I'm tempted to toss the sneakers into the closet and be done with it.

My experience with running has had its ups and downs.  In elementary school, our gym teacher pushed at everyone to join the cross-country and track teams.  I bowed to the pressure and started to run.  It hurt.  My lungs burned, my knees ached and sweat stung my eyes.  20+ years later, I still remember the pain.  I also remember the glory.  I remember beating out the fastest runner in our school during a 400m practice and feeling so proud!  I remember training for sprints at night on our court while my mom insisted on keeping a conversation going for safety as I ran around the trees and bushes (this was during Paul Bernardo days). 

Fast-forward 15 years and I signed up to train for my first 5km.  Most of it sucked, but there were 2 runs that kept me going: finishing the 5km race we trained for and during one of  the training runs.  Our local YMCA held the clinic and running down a local side street, I finally found that natural high that keeps runners coming back.  And then just as quickly, it was gone.

I longed to feel that again, running without pain and just enjoying every step.  My lungs finally working in tandem with my body.  So, stupidly, I signed up for half-marathon training.  I say stupidly because I wasn't in any condition to push for such a long distance.  I should have done more shorter races.  Weight had crept back onto my frame and I hadn't kept up with my running.  After each weekend training, I hurt so badly I couldn't contemplate running until the next weekend.  Walking was excruciating as my feet cramped and ached every time I put weight on them.  As the distance increased, so did the pain.  A week's recovery wasn't cutting it anymore.  After running a 12 mile route, my body threw in the towel.  I blew my ankle.  Angry and relieved, I walked (more like hobbled) away from running.

I didn't want to give up completely, so a couple years ago, I started out again.  I pushed to meet the 1 minute walk/1 minute run timings that everyone says should be the beginning.  The pain came back fast and I gave up.  Again.  Frustrated and annoyed, I said my goodbyes to running.

But the idea of running just wouldn't die.  Every so often I'd look up training calendars and wonder if I could get back into it again.  And every time I saw the programs I felt defeated because I knew my body couldn't handle it.  Overweight, damaged feet, and problematic knees won out against all the suggested training schedules. 

A few weeks ago I pulled out the running shoes to go for a walk.  That's all I intended it to be, but as I got closer to home, I decided to try a jog for a short time.  Hmmm, no pain.  Discomfort yes, as my body tried to coordinate itself and adjust to the new gait, but not painful.  So I made a decision:  Screw the  books, magazines, websites, and friendly advice.  It was time to do something I haven't done in a long time and listen to the one resource that made sense...my body.  If I wanted to run, it would be on my terms, not someone else's.

This morning I pulled out the work-out gear and dusted off the sneakers.  I put the timer on my phone, not as a restriction or goal, but rather to see how much I could handle today.  I walked when I wanted to walk, and jogged when I could handle it.  23 minutes later, I hadn't a clue what my ratio of walk to run was, or how far I'd gone.  It didn't matter that people saw me jiggling my way across the street or that I couldn't go for hours.  For those 23 minutes, I forgot about being judged and just enjoyed being a runner.