Running For The Guy

When I was little, I remember my mom telling me a story about how this young man had to have an operation on his intestines. I'm sure I was way too young to ask why or what the operation entailed, but my mom told me that this man wasn't going to be able to do a lot of the regular things he used to do.

"Can he still run?" I asked, concern wrinkling my brow.

"No," my mom answered. "He won't be able to run."

"Not ever again?" I asked.

"No, he won't be able to run," she repeated as if I totally missed the point.

Not being able to run seemed like the worst life sentence to me. There were times when I ran just because I could. I'd run until I was out of breath and had to gasp to regain it. I'd run just to feel the wind on my face and in my hair. I'd stretch out my arms and pretend I was flying. It was glorious to feel that sense of weightlessness, that oneness with air and earth. To lose that forever? Oh, it seemed like such a loss to me. I mourned for him.

I'm not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped running. Maybe I got tired of adults yelling at me not to run, that I could fall if I weren't more careful. Maybe I didn't want to arrive somewhere all windblown and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. Maybe it was for some other reasons altogether...but either way, I didn't run anymore. Not for fun, anyway....and not for any longer than I absolutely had to. I caught the bus, hurried to meet friends, rushed across busy streets...usually no further than a few feet did I ever run. And it began to hurt...which made me want to run even less. I began to hate running.

I didn't run for 25 years.

I stepped on the scale. 215. I'd been on a diet for almost my entire adult life. I went on an extreme diet and lost 70 pounds only to put it all back on plus more in less than 3 years. Diets alone don't work, and I never had a steady schedule where I could take an exercise class. I looked around at chronic exercisers. Most of them ran and I didn't know any runners who were fat.

God, I hated running. And then I remembered the story about the guy who couldn't run after his operation. I remembered how shocked I was that such a great activity was taken away from him. What happened to that joy I used to feel from running? It moved out to make room for my fat.

All running needs is a place and a good pair of shoes. Surely I could find the time to start running.

Starting a running program is brutal. It hurts. It's thankless. It takes a lot of extra time. It's humbling. Parts of me shook like jelly as I attempted a minimal turkey trot. My tiny stride belied the rest of me. My legs took hopping baby steps while my body flopped around in complete opposition of my slow motion. I felt ridiculous. Huge. Under a microscope with the whole gym staring at the fat girl on the treadmill.

There weren't any fat runners, I reminded myself, except me. If I could keep it up, soon I'd be thin, too. Meanwhile, my immediate reward for doing my workout was being able to take a long hot shower at the gym, a privilege I sorely missed.

Three years later, I weigh 221. I'm still the fattest runner on the treadmill. I've shucked my baggy sweats in favor of more form-fitting leggings. I run intervals: several quarter-mile jogs at 5 mph interspersed with short walks. I do this for 2.25 miles in about 30 minutes. My body is tighter. My legs are stronger, leaner, more flexible. I can start to see muscle definition all over. When I finish my workout, I hold my head up high. I did it. Again today. God willing, I'll do it again in a couple more days.

I run for that guy my mom told me about years ago, but most of all, I run for me. I run because I can. And I'm so absolutely grateful that I can.

And I'm 100% thankful for a long, hot shower afterward. Indoor plumbing, I heart you.