Fostering a New Addiction and Conquering Old Memories of (Hilarious, but Mortifying) Failure

I absolutely, totally, without exception hate running.

I'm not talking the constant bustle which currently fills my life, nor am I discussing the way my to-do list keeps getting longer and longer.

I am speaking of tie-your-adidas-shoes-on-wear-a-sports-bra-pump-your-legs-furiously-sweat-profusely-blister-inducing running. Yuck. Ever since I was a little kid, I've hated running. While most children would engage in games of tag, capture the flag, and active hide-and-seek, I would curl up in my favorite corner of the couch and read. I was six the first time I read a book through in one sitting (ahh, four hours with "The Boxcar Children"), but the most memorable part of that accomplishment was my worried mother peeking her head around the door and saying,

"Honey, put the book down and go outside. Run around!"

I didn't want to run around. I would pretend to out-run bad guys, I would run to find my favorite book in the library, I would invent crazy stories about running away from home (and then enact them), but I never found any pleasure in running as an athletic, adrenaline-enducing activity that most of my counter-parts appeared to enjoy.

While my mother was trying to stop my reading by peeking around corners and enforcing the "lights out" rule, my father decided to take a more direct approach.

He signed me up for a race. But refusing to sign me up and then watch me fail, he devised a training schedule and did his best to make sure that I followed it. (I didn't.) The night before the big race, he rented "Chariots of Fire" (we never rented movies), and used it to elicit a fire of competitive eagerness.

Unfortunately, all the "eagerness" in the world doesn't make up for a lack of training. I took off that day at the starting line. (When I say "took off" I mean that 83% of the other runners were out of sight before I had "run" for 3 minutes.) Panting feverishly I wondered to myself why anyone would do this as the remaining runners behind started passing me one by one. I was so uncomfortable! Why did people insist on doing this?

As I rounded the final bend, the people on the side-lines began to applaud. I grinned. It was just like "Chariots of Fire"! Seeing the finish line in the distance, I pulled out all the stops. The applause got louder. And louder. I was amazing. I wondered if I was going to win something. Had I unwittingly beaten all my competitors? I looked over my shoulder to see who I was beating, to soak in the devastation that those cocky boys in front of me were now feeling as I collected first prize.

But there was no herd of disappointed males. There was only one, lone, competitor behind me, and she was the reason the crowd was clapping.

And she could barely stay upright. One leg turned this way, the other that. She hobbled feebly, held up by her father. One glance showed me:

I was barely out-running a girl with cerebral palsy.

Ever since that day I have abstained from races, I have avoided running, and I have not missed it in the least. But lately lack of time, and increased conviction have led me to realize that:

a) I really, really, really need to have some daily form of physical exercise.
b) Running is the fastest way to squeeze that into my schedule.

So I'm hoping to develop a need, a desire, an addiction to running that I never had, not even in childhood.

Here's hoping that the next race I run I can push someone with cerebral palsy in a wheelchair instead of being passed by them...