Run

I ran yesterday. I put on my running shoes, walked out the front door and took off at a jogging clip after a year and a half of a sedentary lifestyle. It felt good. My body recalled the rhythm and fell right into it. My breathing was steady and my lungs cooperated – for 2 blocks before they revolted. I forced myself to hit the half mile mark before I turned around and walked home. I knew it would be tough, but only a half mile! How did I let this happen? It’s not as if I was a jock or a marathon runner before, but I was proud of being in fairly good physical condition.

In my late (very late) forties I signed on with a personal trainer, vowing to get into shape before I turned fifty. I worked hard and soon I was running. The first time out I ran a whole mile. I was shocked – I’d never run more than a city block in my life. My trainer was smug; he knew I could do it because he had conditioned me well in the gym for months before he sent me out for my first run. From there I increased my distance to 2 miles, 3 miles, 4 miles, 7 miles. I considered a half marathon. I ran a 5K Turkey Trot one Thanksgiving.

I never considered myself a “runner.” I never hit the point of losing myself in the run or felt the exhilaration “real runners” feel. I always had to fight at it, force myself to run. My trainer said I ran like a warrior – not a compliment. Then my fifty year old knees began to rebel. I had to ice them after every run and rather than increasing my mileage, I began cutting back. Then I spent a week in the hospital with pancreatitis and had emergency gall bladder surgery with a slow recovery giving me an excuse to stop running and to quit my trainer. That was seventeen months ago.

I’m surprised to admit I’ve missed running. I’ve missed the discipline, the rhythm, the exhilaration of accomplishment, and the tautness of my calf muscles. Can I get it back? I’m not sure. Will I get back out there this morning? You bet.