When I met my late husband I was running somewhere between 8 and 10 miles nearly every day. I was weight-lifting once or twice a week. I had joined a local Tae Kwon Do school because even though I had given up my training after earning my first degree black belt, for reasons that only make sense to me, I missed training. The school offered a kick-boxing fitness class that I hit about 3 times a week. I had also discovered deep water running, which I hope to start again soon here. Was I a fitness freak? Maybe some would see it that way. Some women like shoes. Some clothes or jewelry. Others find that changing their looks by altering hair color and style makes them most happy. I like being lean and strong. Will always told me that I didn’t have to be thin for him, but it wasn’t about him just as it isn’t about my husband, Rob, now. It is, and always has been, about me.

I started running in college. The university had this absurd idea that forcing its Liberal Arts undergrads to take P.E. classes would round us out as people and start us on the road to lifelong healthy habits. Then, as now, the idea that physical education does anything more than reinforce self-esteem issues is ridiculous. I didn’t mind the requirement. I had never disliked “gym class” really. Probably because I have always been a rather natural athlete.  I was never left standing unpicked and humiliated on the sidelines. I may not have had an overwhelming enthusiasm for every game I was required to participate in (dodge ball comes to mind), but I played and usually did quite well.

The jogging class, as it was called, was a quarter semester class like all the others. We would met on the green in front of the student union, and the instructor would give us his spiel of the day and then assign the laps and miles for the hour. I actually listened to most of what he had to say. I had tried running before but various problems from shin splints to sore feet to never being able to build up mileage had always dampened and then doomed my attempts. I learned quite a bit about shoes, stride, and training, but mostly I was just forced to run. Daily and far. After the class ended, I continued to run. It was difficult to do really. No one I knew ran. Truthfully, no one I knew exercised at all. All of my friends were of the genetically gifted class of short, thin and pretty. Although I lost weight when I went off to college, and continued to do so for most of my time there without much effort; I was tall, sturdy and plain. I admit that some of my motivation in the beginning was to be thin like everyone else I knew. As time went on though, I just grew to like it. The time spent in solitary pursuit of the next mile. Breeze blowing by. Tunes in my ear. Lost in my thoughts, daydreams mostly, but sometimes very good ideas or solutions to problems were worked through to a finished product. The best thing about running by far however was the freedom.

Most people regard aerobic exercise as punishment, and jogging or running certainly tops many a list of least favorites when it comes to getting in shape. Personally, I would rather grow to my sofa than participate in the types of alternatives that many of my peers prefer. Exercise classes of sheople dressed in Flashdance attire are akin to being put in a cage to me. Give me the open road, my walkman (now iPod), and a pleasant evening, and I was the happiest of women. The thing about running is that the motivation has to come from within. There is no one with a headset, plastic painted on smile and Stepford wife voice to shame you on. You have to push yourself. No one likes to push themselves, even when it has to be done, and most people reason that when it comes to exertion there is no such thing as “has to”.

After my daughter was born, I tried to get back into running. I missed me. I was okay with the weight I put on and would retain as a necessary part of pregnancy and nursing, but I missed the time with my thoughts and my music when no one could interrupt or impose. Those runs where more than “exercise”, they were a time to recharge and detoxify myself. I am not a loner, nor would I make a good hermit, but the time I spent with people, and the kinds of people I interacted with, wore on me. I needed to be free of my confining existence and when you can’t do that physically, the mind takes flight. Running gave my mind and soul their escape route.

I have been running again for maybe a month. I can run a mile and a half non-stop on a good asthma day. I try to run at least two miles all together and walk a few more. I know I will never run ten miles again and that’s okay. I have selfish desire to save my knees for my old age. I would like to run outdoors again though. Four miles maybe. Along a bike path on a sunny day. I wish I could put into words the true release and renewal that running for miles on end can be. It’s like breaking free of skin and bone and flying in certain respects. Running is soul food. And maybe that is an acquired taste.