Jogging Envy

Now that the weather is back down into the low 80’s and high 70’s, and not quite as sweltering as in the past few weeks, I see more and more people out jogging on the streets of Chicago. And I’m jealous.

I never thought I would ever see the day when I regretted not being able to run. It’s been ten days since I last laced up my running shoes and pounded the pavement with my long, loping strides, but that “pounding” part seems to have been the problem. Until my plantar fasciitis clears up, which could take a few more weeks, I won’t be running again any time soon.

I ran track and cross country in high school, and hated almost every minute of it. I did it mainly because Dad said I needed to do something active with my free time. I knew he was right, but that didn’t mean I really wanted to run. We lived in a tiny town in the very rural southwest corner of Michigan. What else was I going to do? (I played basketball in the winter for two years, in 8^th and 9^th grades, before I staged my version of rebellion by deciding I needed my winters off). So I ran.

At the time, I took for granted the excellent physical shape I was in because of these pursuits. Not every high school kid can run a mile in five minutes, 30 seconds (which I only did once, which was quite enough), or run 3.1 miles in 19:30, but there were plenty of other runners who were faster and more resilient than I, and I tended to judge my accomplishments vis-à-vis theirs. I never felt like a very good runner, which was one reason I didn’t really enjoy it. The monotony was another reason.

Back in March or April, I finally decided to do something about the weight I had gained in the past few years. In college, I did a karate workout at least twice a week, and there were some years when I also lifted weights regularly. I wasn’t as trim as I had been in high school, but I stayed fit. My gut stayed behind my belt, where it belonged.

Then came two years of getting a teaching certificate, which included one very stressful year of student teaching. This was followed by a year and a half of ultra-stressful teaching on the South Side of Chicago. My gut wasn’t huge (I never looked pregnant or anything, a look I desperately never want to sport), but I had grown tired of it pushing against the buttons of my shirts. It was time to slim down.

I was too cheap to join a gym, but I had a decent pair of running shoes, so I bit the bullet and started running. As usual, I pushed myself way too hard my first time out. After only about half a mile, I felt like puking. I only made it a mile that day, one very sweaty, achy, gaspingly uninspiring mile. I quickly changed my tactics: a slower pace, permission to walk a half-mile for every mile I ran, less pressure on myself to make some kind of arbitrary time.

Soon I was up to a mile and a half, then two miles, then two and a half miles, then three miles. Every time I went out, I enjoyed myself a little more. The monotony was still there, but this time I taught myself to savor the runners’ high, that rush of endorphins right at the end of a run that makes the senses clearer, the mind sharper, the step light and brisk. Dinner always tasted better after a run.

The other good part came months later. I’m as vain as the next guy, so when friends, acquaintances, and people at work started asking if, and then outright saying, that I had lost weight, I felt another sense of accomplishment. I might never have a 34-inch waist again, but my gut wasn’t pushing quite as far over my belt, my face wasn’t quite so round, and to top it all off, I noticed other health benefits, too: I was sleeping better at night, even if I got fewer hours of sleep; I was more relaxed during the day, and had deeper reserves of energy.

Nine days ago, I ran 3.5 miles in about 33 minutes, without stopping, for the second day in a row. The next day, I limped from morning ‘til night because my right heel hurt badly, as if someone had sunk a nail deep into the muscle and bone, a nail I drove deeper with each hobbling step I took.

When I was seven or eight, and running a mile with my dad before he ran his daily six, I would have welcomed the excuse not to run. Back then, I only ran because I knew Dad wanted me to, and I felt guilty if I didn’t. So I’d have to “tie my shoe” every few hundred yards. Or I’d see “something interesting” on the side of the road that I’d have to stop and check out. I hated running. Didn’t want to do it.

I never thought I’d ever say this, but now, not running is driving me crazy.