Evolution of a Runner

Shoes laced

Timer set and...go

The darkness and chill

Slip away

Until all that's left

Is the pavement

And the pulsing feeling of carpe diem

Of being alive or (more importantly)

Of truly living.

In kindergarten, I loved to run. I distinctly remember racing across the concrete in the sun with my entire class, leaving most of them in the dust, proud of my innate prowess. Well, truth be told, being the tallest person in class probably didn't hurt.

In first grade, these skills were called upon for a crucial mission.
"Hey, do you want to join the girls' club?" one of my classmates asked.
"What do you do?"
"We chase the boys."
"What do you do when you catch them?"
"Kiss them," she responded.

There was no downside - I joined the very next lunch break. Though we caught every boy in class, the prize was the elusive Andrew who was speed incarnate.

Fast-forward to the eight grade torture known as gym. The event:  the dreaded timed mile. By this time, I did not run by choice - EVER - preferring reading or gossiping with friends, anything besides this torment.

I started out effortfully. I was going to do this whether I wanted to or not. Pride demanded it. My lungs burned long before the first of what seemed like one million laps.  I panted and my face reddened with exertion.

The other runners pulled ahead.  Ah, the humiliation as first one and then the next lapped me. All except Lauren. Relief! Not only was she slower, she was just walking. I was saved. I would not be the final "runner" across the finish line. My pace slowed to match hers.

"Mind if I join you?" I offered.
Her response: "Sure. I have asthma and have to go slow so I don't have an and attack die or something".

Hmmm... I didn't have such a good reason to keep from picking up my pace again, BUT I would be a true friend if I kept her company to the end of that interminable mile. How long did it take? Probably about fifteen minutes, the maximum time allotted to us (and incidentally, slower than I usually walk these days).

Through the years since, I dabbled in running - an occasional jaunt around Green Lake or treadmill running at the Y. I didn't actually enjoy it, but no longer hated it with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. A year and a half ago, I began training for the Bellingham half marathon after being cajoled by Aubrey, one of my best friends. This time, something finally clicked. We followed a modified version of the Jeff Galloway method (where you alternate periods of walking and running, going for two short and one increasingly longer run per week).  And somewhere along the way, I experienced the mythical runner's high.

After Bellingham came Seattle and then Oakland, where my encouraging brother Dan joined me, carrying bananas and trail mix as support.  "Come on - try for a personal best!"  While I finished at a slower pace than my previous race, I had an amazingly glorious day (we ran through a hoop of fire!) and enjoyed the camaraderie of a race run together.

So here I am, running again and plotting my next event, debating whether to repeat a favorite or tread a new path. On a recent early morning run, I realized that it only takes about two minutes of pounding the pavement before my mood lifts and I finally awaken.

I am a runner.