Confessions of a Non-Runner

This may come as a shock to some of you but I am not a runner. I may have given the impression or outright lied that I was. I may have even told myself that I was and I may have signed up for races, but you won't see me out there pounding the pavement until about two weeks prior to the race date. So, in the current spirit of truth I confess: I am not a runner.

But you've been running since you were 11, you say. That may be true but I only started because as one of seven children it meant that was the only "Dad & Me Time" I was going to get all day. Dad would come in at 4 or 5 something in the morning and shake me saying, "We're going in 10." I'd begrudgingly pull on my athletic duds, secretly excited I had Dad all to myself but annoyed that we were running and at the crack of dawn. I rarely complained out loud but I'm sure Dad got the message when he'd have to re-wake me up two or three more times before I was fully dressed and out the door. One time he handed me a glass of water on his first wake-up call hoping to speed the process. I fell back to sleep with it resting on my chest, jerking awake when I heard my dad re-approaching, this time splashing the full glass of water on my face and soaking my pillow and pajamas. I was wide awake after that.

The running tradition started when we moved to Canada. I had no way to measure the cold other than by how fast it took to freeze the snot in my nose or how my chilled breath seemed to blur my vision. Regular runs with dad continued on through high-school in Oklahoma, where the wind gusts would try to blow me off the road, and up until I left for college in Missouri. I would run with Dad when I'd come home on Holiday and I would run, more sporadically, at college. I'd run mostly when I was frustrated or feeling chubby or out of excuses for my best friend (who was a jog-a-holic) or when, like most co-eds, I was trying to impress the opposite sex, especially since part of the trail went passed the back half of the baseball field during practice. The fact that my jogs were during practice was merely coincidental. I always ran though, when I missed my dad. I'd imagine he was there beside me, our footsteps and breath in sync, less about the conversation and more about the rhythm.

I don't go home as often, and when I do, its sometimes too short a trip to squeeze in a run with Dad, who is still in better shape than I am. I also care less about giving the impression that I'm a runner. People may think I'm in shape, but if I am, its only because I spend 40+ hours a week chasing 3-year-olds and because I bike to work but only if the weather's nice, if I get up in time and if Paul doesn't need the car that day.

I'm not sure what got me out the door today. I certainly had my list of excuses. I was not particularly missing my dad, not feeling especially frustrated or chubby, Bolder Boulder is still nearly two months away and I'm definitely not trying to impress the opposite sex, since mine's finishing up a 12-hour shift at the hospital. I mindlessly pulled on my athletic duds. I could have stopped when I failed to find the other half of my favorite running socks. I could have stalled to re-charge my deceased ipod. I could have gone back inside when I stepped out and realized it was both freezing cold and windy. But I didn't. I have no idea why I ran, because, like I said before, I am not a runner.