150

There was a time when I ran. Not like Forrest. And not because I was afraid. But only because I believed it was a worthy thing to balance the many excesses in my life. Moderation wasn’t working for me, and I felt the tinniest tinge of guilt beginning to swell up in my gut, so I put on my Adidas and was off. At least there would be added a modicum of muscular shape to the body in question – mine. Aspiring to any higher elevation, however, was simply out of the question.

(I’m sorry, but I am sitting in Panera Bread having a coffee as I write this, and I am distracted. Seems the elderly couple behind me just made a temporary investment in the form of $25 worth of baked goods, and are currently scarfing down the assortment. Does one really need to eat a spinach and bacon soufflé AND a choco-nut bagel with hazelnut cream cheese all in one sitting? Wouldn’t the bagel alone be sufficient? I feel convicted just watching them.)

Anyway, during this running phase I stumbled into, I became pretty regular. And by regular, I mean that I was able to maintain a fairly consistent schedule of exercise. In fact, until my knees began to give out, I probably felt better than I ever had in my life. I wanted to share my new found love, so I tried to encourage my best friend. He was a new father at the time, and I thought he should know what a great feeling it was to sweat and exhaust yourself daily. To feel like you would vomit if you made another stride. Constantly pushing, even when it became so painful that you believed your body would fall off. No one should miss out on that kind of experience. He didn’t see it that way.

“I could give a rat’s ass about working out,” was what he told me. And I believed him.

Recently, after a viewing of the new film 300, and since the first buds of spring have popped, his tune has apparently changed. Now, a second kid on the way, he’s decided to take up running for the first time in his life. He’s purchased the Nike I-pod sensor, to embed in his sneakers, and keep track of the progress on his Nano, and he’s even considering joining a gym. I had to give it to him straight: “Look, there’s no way you’re ever going to look like Gerard Butler. You’d be lucky to look like Alfred the butler at this point. You’re too far gone.”

Honestly, I don’t know who he’s even trying to impress. He’s got a wife and 2 kids now. Shit. What’s he want? Maybe there’s a streak of envy in me that suspects he’s picking up where I dropped the ball many years ago. These days, I can’t even get off my ass long enough to land a job.

I mean, I saw 300. It just made me tired. Essentially a 10 minute battle, forcefully extended into 2 full hours. And the good guys all die in the end anyway. I couldn’t help but imagine my best friend. Face down on brutal, black, scalding asphalt. No arrows through his chest. Just skint knees and shattered dreams. Halfway through his first mile. Done in. His Nikes still pristine. Tube socks still dryer fresh. Xerxes still reigning as the god king.

I failed to mention that besides the hefty, elderly couple packing their gullets with starch, I’m completely surrounded by contestants in Chicago’s Shamrock Shuffle – an 8K. (Just about 5 miles – which I wish they’d just say. I don’t know who the hell even knows the damn metric system.) The people who have entered this particular race seem to be made up of various shapes, sizes and vintages, which gives me some hope. Although their choice of pre-competition food is odd. Some snack on fruit – an apple here, some melons and such. This seems reasonable. It’s the guy over in the corner, packing away cinnamon rolls and chugging coffee, that has me worried. Another girl has those single serving size packages of Ranch Doritos – only she has about 10 of them. I mean, I know this is only 5 miles and everything, but come on people! Can you really be prepared to run after sticking all that shit in your body. It made me nauseous, and I’m not even running.

I had to get all of my hypocritical, venomous rhetoric out of the way first, so I could address my own issues. Because if I must be completely honest, (which is important for me to do), my best friend is trying to better himself. Those people in that Shamrock Shuffle today, though not the wisest eaters, are trying to better themselves. (I overheard one of the numbered ones say that following the race, there is an after party. Beer tents were set up around the perimeter of the finished line, so people can immediately begin to feel bad about themselves once again. Maybe this is to encourage them to enter the next damn K-ish event. But I digress.) What I really wanted to say is:

“Way to go, people. Way to go. You’ve taken your first steps – many of you. Baby steps – some of you. But steps nonetheless. Congratulations, you’re on your way. To what, I don’t know. Maybe the beer tent, or back to Panera Bread for some more cherry streudel…but, I’m getting off track again.”

Let me tell you that I have been inspired. Maybe by the people in the Shamrock Shuffle, but most significantly by my best friend – who sleeps on stacks of books because he heard it can help foster a six-pack. The point is, I will run again. One day. One day soon. Possibly soon. Sooner than later. And I have purchased 20 lb dumbbells. They sit by my door. I will work the lifting of them into my daily routine. But these minor details do not strike appropriately at the core of what has happened in me. On one hand, I have reached the point where I truly want to be a better man. On another hand altogether, I realize that THIS…(long dramatic pause)…is NOT Sparta, and I could give a rat’s ass about working out.