Running . . . really?

I've found myself running lately. Involving myself in an activity I swore I would never take on. Running around in circles. Running for the sake of running. Running so I might be able to run just a little bit further the next time I run in that same circle. Running in the hopes that someone I know will see me running and tell me later on how much he wishes he was able to get out and run like that.

I think one of my favorite parts of running occurs prior to the actual run. I have to be in a place where I am so utterly dissatisfied with myself that I feel the need to abuse my body in an effort to strengthen it. The first thing I typically have to do is put the bottle of whiskey down. Granted, the process of repeatedly lifting it to my lips from the table may seem like a form of exercise but I need more than one pumped arm. So, I put it down and stretch my fingers out of what I have affectionately termed "bottle claw." Then, I have to find some suitable workout clothes. This is a subtle yet utterly intentional decision. I want to wear something that says, "I'm working out for me and I don't care about anyone else." So, I carefully pick out shorts and a shirt and socks that communicate how little I care about what I'm wearing. It takes a lot of time to put together an outfit that shows how little time you put into it.

My next move is into my car. Now, you may ask why I drive anywhere when I could just run around my neighborhood. That question forgets, however, my utter need to be recognized for what I am doing. If I run around my neighborhood, I may not encounter a single person. There will be no chance of seeing someone and asserting my moral and physical superiority over them. If I go down to the lake, however, I am virtually guaranteed that chance encounter. Call it planned serendipity. So, I get in my car, drive down to the lake and light up a smoke along the way. While many people think that smoking is bad for you, I'm still waiting for the day when I get to storm into a burning building filled with smoke to save a dying baby. The firefighters will all be fumbling with their respirators while I walk in and breathe deep the sweet smoke of liberation. Then I walk out, baby in arms with a cigarette in my mouth lit from the baby's burning clothes. Who's dumb for smoking now? I call them hero sticks. It'll catch on, you wait and see.

So, I park next to the lake and get out of my car. I stretch my atrophied muscles (I can almost touch my toes) and stomp out my finished smoke. I take a deep breath of the fresh air typically followed by a coughing fit. You know, from the hero sticks (I'm telling you, it'll catch on). I jump up and down a few times in an effort to get my body used to movement after a prolonged period of lethargic sloth. Plus, the jumping looks like something a workout person is supposed to do.

Then I actually start running. And it feels good. For a while. I get that superior feeling that accompanies physical fitness. Focusing on breathing and my running form like I have some idea of what I'm doing. The good part lasts a solid 15 minutes. Then the hyperventilation and leg cramping starts. I've found that I can't stop running at this point, though, because the minute I stop, my legs seize up. Instead, I push through the pain, invoking the spirit of some masochistic personal trainer. I can virtually hear him spouting phrases like "push through the pain," and "max out your muscles."

This is about the point where I start having significant problems. Breathing usually tops the list. I find that after about 25 minutes of running, every breath is so precious that I become unwilling to swallow or cough or spit. These actions consume valuable breathing time so I start foregoing them. This results in a rather attractive line of spittle running down my cheek. Finally, I reach my limit and slow down only to have the aforementioned muscle seizure overcome my legs. So, there I am, hyperventilating and drooling on myself as my body shakes uncontrollably from the leg cramps. But, at least I'm exercising.