Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Boss was wrong.
Cause baby, I was not born to run.
I hate running. I've hated running ever since I was old enough to walk. Why run, when I can walk? Walking gets me everywhere I need to go, and without unsightly panting! Sure, I need to leave a little earlier than the runners, but I get there all the same. I'm more Tortoise than Hare, and I'm fine with that.
The mere mention of running makes me feel a little queasy. But when my friend Elizabeth asked me to accompany her as she cheered on her husband Peter as he ran the Whistlestop Marathon from Iron River to Ashland earlier this month, I couldn't say no. I may hate running, but I fully support others in their choice to run (even if I think they're crazy).
Little did I know how much running would be involved. As we dashed from checkpoint to checkpoint along the marathon route (which follows the old railroad corridor and crosses lots of forest roads and driveways along the way, where race organizers set up water tables and port-a-potties), we'd park the car a quarter mile down the road in the first parking spot we saw (there were a LOT of cars following the runners!), run to the corridor, wave and yell at Peter as he went by, then run back to the car and speed on to the next crossing. And repeat. And then repeat some more, along roughly 26 miles, until we finally wound up chasing him from Vaughn Avenue to the finish line in front of the Depot.
By the end of the race, according to Elizabeth's mom's pedometer, we'd run nearly five miles ourselves. Not to take away from Peter running a marathon, but I pretty much ran an 8k fun run that day. Without any advance training. I fully expect a phone call from the good people at Wheaties any minute now.