Catch Me if You Can

It’s funny how some things are more impressive the older we get.  When I was eleven, my Dad ran the Boston Marathon.  To my nearly 40-year-old self, that’s pretty impressive. 

To my eleven-year-old self, it was a trip to Boston with a side of race.

Why this recent admiration? 

Because a few months ago, I started to jog.  I’ve tried and failed before.  In middle school, I joined the track team for two days, but decided to quit after my sides began to cramp and my lungs began to burn.

My excuse has always been I’m just not built to run.  I’m too top heavy. I don’t like to sweat.  I’m athletically deficient.

Turns out, all I really needed was a decent sport bra. 

Though not quite under the cloak of darkness, and not by jumping behind the occasional telephone pole like my Dad did when he started, I run my course from Morgan Street to Westwood Cemetery and back home again. 

My internal GPS knows that if I wind up dying, at least I’ll be in a convenient spot.

Often on my runs, I think about my Dad when he was my age.  Without the assistance of Couch-to-Five K on his iPhone, he began running the back roads of Pittsfield with little more than a stick to beat away the occasional dog and a crappy pair of Converse tennis shoes.  He didn’t need the encouragement of his Facebook friends to keep him at it.  In fact, I’m guessing for him it was quite the opposite.  My Dad was an enigma.  Why run if no one is chasing you?

As impressed as I am today with his physical endurance, I am almost more impressed by the do-it-yourself therapy that he discovered while running.  Without fanfare, he kept at it, training both body and mind.

For thirty minutes, I leave the chaos of my home life behind, as well as many of the anxieties that pull at the hem of my shirt throughout the day.  Like a toddler learning to walk (and looking nearly as graceful), I sometimes think of little more than that daily run that somehow frees me.  No longer do I run because I should, I run because I have to.

And whenever I doubt that I can make it just two more minutes, I think of my Dad, and suddenly my feet sprout wings.