In 7^th grade, maybe eighth grade, my best friend and I decided to go out for track. 

I don’t know why.  Neither of us were the least bit athletic and the only thing I can imagine is that the running craze was starting in the US.  So, there we were: two extremely skinny girls standing in the hot North Carolina sun waiting for Mrs. Anders to start track practice.  Within minutes we learned that showing up was all it took to be on the team. 

With no further ado, she set us to running laps.  This was late August in coastal Carolina.  It wasn’t just hot, it was need-to-grow-gills-to-breathe hot and humid.  Miserable.  And this was in the days when it was believed that drinking water while exercising was a Bad Thing.  A Very Bad Thing.

Charlene and I ran around the track once.  We were the very last ones to finish that first lap.  We looked at one another, grabbed our book bags and left.

That was my only stint of being a student athlete of any type.

Flash forward a few years:  my father took up running.  I adored my father, but thankfully he didn’t invite me along. 

Flash forward a few more years. I started dating a guy that ran.  He thought it would be perishingly romantic for us to run together.  Picture this: the grounds of the VA Medical Center in inner city Milwaukee.  I had run maybe a block’s worth in my old high school gym shoes.  Sat down on a stoop of an office building, pulled out my cigarettes and smoked while watching Jerry run.

I loathed it.

I married him anyway.

Flash forward a few more years.  I had quit smoking and thought running would be a Good Idea. And Not A Very Bad Thing. 

I bought expensive shoes.  Nifty shorts.  A tank top.  Did some stretches.  Drove to the high school and ran around the quarter mile track.

Loathed it. AND it made me want a cigarette.

I think the idea of running as exercise sounds so romantic.  You can do it anywhere.  You don’t need a lot of equipment.  You can do It alone any time of day.  It’s good for you. 

I could hear the strains of Born Free coursing through my veins as I imagined me as a runner.

I tried a few more times.

Then my son became a cross country runner and ran with our dachshund who lived to run.

The three men in my life I loved most and my beloved dog, all ran for fun.  What was my problem?  I tried again.  A Very Bad Thing. 

I loathe it. My list of complaints rivaled Roseanne Roseannadanna’s quit-smoking-naked-people rant.

 My knees, which had never given me the least of problems, ached.  I was out of breath in 3.1 seconds, I’m allergic to my sweat and would break out in a rash particularly on my legs where they had been shaved.  And my back would hurt. My hair would drip oil. My earlobes throbbed.  My feet screamed.  Even my eyebrows complained. 

I loathe running.  Loathe it.  It’s a Very Bad Thing.

If you ever see me running, call 911 for both the cops (a crime is being committed) and an ambulance (I will collapse). 

Running.  A Very Bad Thing.