It wasn't always that way. As a young, barefoot, tangly-haired little girl, I loved sprinting across the backyard on warm, muggy Ohio evenings with my brothers playing hide-and-go-seek, or flying from base-to-base in wiffleball, my grass-stained feet carrying me like wings. I felt fast.
My parents took up jogging when it became a new sport (back in the 70's?) and I remember them taking us all to K-Mart and buying blue Keds "running" shoes, with white stripes down the sides. Weird-looking shoes, with a bit of a cushioned-sole and a narrower toe than my canvas Converse All-Stars. My mother sewed us polyester jogging suits and my dad started wearing short, silky shorts. They would drive us a half-mile out past our 'busy' road to Black Road, a long stretch of country pavement dotted by a few small farmhouses and surrounded by soybean and corn fields. They carefully measured out the distances, and would commence a half mile, mile, or more jog. We all joined in this new 'family activity'. I remember after the first short, half-mile run my parents flung themselves down on the ground and laid there, panting for breath with racing heartbeats, no concept of a "warm down". They subscribed to Runner's World and we read stories about Steve Prefontaine and Frank Shorter. They were determined to get in shape -- and get us kids in shape too! Can I just say? -- it was not fun. There were very few trees along our running route so our jogs were hot and miserable. I was introduced to the phrase "cotton mouth". I soon came to dread the daily event.
My parents decided to start jogging around our one-acre yard. Soon a well-worn footpath marked the 1/8 mile loop. Daddy would pay us 25 cents per mile on allowance day for every mile we had run that week. I remember recording my mileage and time meticulously in my Trapper Keeper on loose-leaf notebook paper, in pencil. It was exciting to bring the list into Daddy's room on Friday afternoons when he got home from work. He'd study our records, slowly, and then turn to his dresser to start gathering coins. Sometimes I'd earn a whole dollar in one week just for jogging! I still hated it but it was worth the money!
In junior high I went out for track and ran the mile and the 880. I felt proud that I "knew" how to run distance and quickly started placing well in our track meets. I continued running in high school, as it was pretty much 'expected' but I soon began to tire of the long, grueling practices, and would wistfully look up the hill to where the girls who went out for Tennis were practicing. They were not sweating, their bangs still fluffy and feathered, makeup un-smeared, and they seemed to be laughing a lot. Big contrast to us tracksters who felt sick to our stomachs, exhausted, and sore.
Some days when I'd get home from practice, my parents would be in the car in the driveway and we'd hop in and they'd take us out to Black Road, where we had to run more, to get 'extra training'. Seriously?! I'd often get the cry-feeling and feel my chest tighten and my hear my breathing go from breaths to wheezing gasps. Daddy would tell me to stop being so overly-emotional about it and to "get it together". He meant no harm, he just wanted me to be in shape for my meets. But this didn't help my dwindling love of jogging.
I stayed with it for all four years of high school. I do remember loving running the last leg of the mile relay, (since it was only one lap around), as the the sun went down and the football field lights came up. On the far side of the track, there were no fans, just the quiet, and the cornfields, and the sound of our spikes--ch-ch-ch-ch--digging into the cinder tracks. But other than those fleeting moments of affection, I was pretty much over running. Not only was it so hard, I felt like a nerd compared to all the 'cool' people who did all the other fun spring sports, and really did not enjoy feeling like crap every day for a couple of hours during training. Despite my frustrations with the sport, I did make All-County (mind you this is probably out of maybe 15 total female distance runners in our tiny farming-community district-- small schools!) and even held our school mile record for about 8 years after I graduated. (I probably shouldn't mention here that the only reason I held it so long was that the year after me they changed the distance to 1600 meters and a whole new set of records were now charted for the new distance. My record would have been broken immediately...but it was still nice to see my name up on that plaque by the gym for a few years anyway!)
By the time I left for college, I swore off running and declared I would never jog again. I went out for fun sports like swimming, racket ball, and tennis. I took golf in P.E. class. I even tried badminton. I jumped in the one-time track meets in college and ran on nothing but youth and skinniness that one still has in their twenties. I did discover that jogging was a good "date" with runner-guys so here and there I'd go along on a jog if the guy was especially handsome. But that was pretty much the extent of my running repertoire.
College graduation came, then marriage, and before I knew it I'd spent a decade not running, as I was busy having babies, and putting on some extra pounds. I did aerobics (Bodies in Motion with Gilad ), bicycle rides, basketball, but no running. When I went through my divorce, I went through a short phase of running again, but it was out of sheer boredom. I had no single friends and absolutely nothing to do to pass those at-first lonely times when the kids were with their dad. I ran a few 5ks and a sprint triathlon or two. Even ran the downhill half marathon with no training at all (it's downhill, why not?) Messed up my knees a bit but finished. Didn't run again for 3-4 years after that.
This past March I joined an online exercise group. Embarrassingly, some of us who joined had only been moving our bodies maybe once a week, if at all, for years. It was time. I tried to go out and jog a mile and -- you know the familiar feeling -- my legs hurt, my stomach felt sick, and I was gasping for air. I stopped and walked. A few weeks later I tried again. Same wretched feeling, and I remembered all over again why I hate running. Nevertheless I kept at it, day by day, and in this past month of August I actually jogged more days than I did not. Not bad for someone who hates running. With the encouragement of my group, and inspired by my cross-country-running daughters, I have gotten to where I can do three miles without stopping. A very slow-as-molasses-legs-aching-with-each-step three miles, mind you, but three miles, and on good days, have even attempted a slow four or five mile jog.
This morning I woke up and it was raining. Having a full-slate of work on my plate, I knew that to make it through the day I should exercise first. And I found myself before I even got out of bed scheming as to where I wanted to run. Me, who hates running. I put on my new-to-me thrift store Asics and my favorite pink running shirt/black shorts and took off on a new trail I'd not yet discovered along a swollen, tree-lined stream. The air was cool and the refreshing light rain felt so good against my hot skin. At one point the heavens opened and the rain poured! I was drenched and found myself grinning idiotically just because I was running in a downpour. Though my calf hurt and my achilles was tight, I felt like I could've run forever. My ankles and knees stopped me short of that, but I did get in a recent-record of 7.5 miles of a slow jog.
I hate to run. But there's something about it that keeps me coming back. It's like two old lovers who have been together forever-- at times sick and tired of each other, but still able to find that passion that reminds them of the reasons they got together in the first place. My current dating relationship with running may last another month, or more, or less, and at some point I may pick a fight with it again and cast it aside. I’ll admit, I’ve been fickle. But my running shoes will still be there on my shelf, waiting patiently, for me to soften, forgive the hurt, and get back into the rhythm once again.
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