For your amusement

Apparently, this will be one of those winters when I try to convince myself that I am a runner. Hilarity ensues.

I have been off the running because of the pain and the tearing and the aching and the inability move my right leg after a few attempts at what I laughingly call “running,” which has never yielded more than an eight-minute mile no matter how much pain I am willing to endure. A couple of years ago I was being cajoled into running a race that I hate because it’s in the evening and who the hell runs a race after 5 in the civilized world, and because there are way way way too many people in it such that pacing, for the first human-detritus-choked mile, is nearly impossible, and I always ended up jumping on the sidewalks and dodging the angular agents of frost heave at risk to both ankle and neck, so I said, “Know what? I’m not running anymore. Just biking. Call me when it’s a bike race.” (Which I totally don’t do. Talk about dangerous.)

But comes the winter and getting out onto the bike involves crazy layers of spandex and gloves and toe-booties to keep the extremities from freezing, and adds a windchill factor that can’t be ignored to every single ride, and a once-young man’s thoughts turn to running again and the absolutely miraculous number of calories one can eat when one runs every day. So I hit the indoor track at the Y the other day (cannot cannot cannot stay interested in running on a treadmill), making a left turn about every 100 feet, 14 laps to the mile, and today I did the high school track, a wonderfully rubbery delight without corners to speak of. Felt so good I followed it up with some laps in the pool.

And then, of course, I collapsed into a heap because I’m way to f’ing old for this nonsense. A little bit of exercise out in the cold completely wiped me out and made me not want to wake up until tomorrow. Pathetic! But I haven’t accepted that I not a runner yet this season, so expect that to come sometime after I start whining about how badly my ileotibial band hurts.