Boston countdown: 10 days. Good luck to those who are running. I’ll be cheering this year.
I wasn’t supposed to be a runner. I heard that so many times from so many M.D.s, exchanging a $25 co-pay to be casually dismissed with a reference to my chronic asthma or genetically wretched knees, since my lungs and legs both should’ve been stamped “IRREGULAR” and shipped to the nearest TJ Maxx. It was a sentiment I believed until I was 22 and started dating a guy who’d run track in college and after a double decade layoff decided to drag his Nikes out of the closet and get back into it. Since we were still in the bright shiny stages of our fledgling relationship, running together sounded like another excellent way to bond, since at that point I had no idea how hard it is to carry on a conversation when you’re dry heaving in someone’s flower bed. Almost eight years and at least thirty pairs of shoes later, he’s the one I can attribute this madness to. It’s especially fitting since he eventually ran off with another woman.
Those were the thoughts that accompanied my treadmill intervals tonight, for whatever reason, as I wondered why I do it. Why I spend my Friday nights counting quarter miles. Why I spend my Sunday mornings stepping over underthrown newspapers in the middle of the sidewalk. Why—regardless of what I’m doing—I always ask myself if I could do it faster. Why my laundry hamper always smells like an abandoned zoo. Why the majority of my t-shirts have been sponsored by the Fresh Market or a pediatric dentist. Why my knowledge of the metric system stops at 10K. Why I don’t get pedicures because they get creeped out when I demand to keep my hard-earned calluses. Why I cook enough pasta to declare myself an Olive Garden franchise. Why I struggle to remember my neighbors’ names but know the Latin words for every part of my leg. Why the most expensive pair of shoes I own have 1/4” spikes on the bottom. Why I buy Epsom salts in bulk. Why I can distinguish between Powerade and Gatorade with the first sip from a crumpled cup. Why I know all the lyrics to “Lose Yourself”. Why I know exactly which homes are under construction since work zones have Portajohns. Why I thoroughly disinfect every piece of produce that I purchase but will—without hesitation—take an orange slice from a stranger’s outstretched hand. Why I’ll always keep spare safety pins in my car. Why I own more than one pair of sweat wicking underwear. Why I’ll pay a hundred bucks to run 26.2 miles, even though I’m going to limp for a week and weep when I see a set of stairs. Why I insist on adding the “point two”.
Why I love it.
Why I hate it.
Why I run.
