I hate running…

I do.  I really really do.

I ran track in High School for four years, and I look back on it fondly as one of the greatest things I ever did.  Coach touched my life in a way that I will never forget, he was one of the rare teachers who truly loved what he did and expressed it in his daily life.  A class never ended w/o a fun thought and a practice never ended w/o a handshake (read: hug).  I was a horrible runner, I was slow no matter how much I tried, but I loved every minute of the camaraderie that came w/ belonging to that team.

But I hated running.  Every time I had to run multiple miles I would cry and secretly cuss and even curse Coach’s name.  When the weather was cold and my nose would freeze together I would get even more angry.  At meets I would give it my all, and sometimes throw up after a hard run.  I hated running, but I loved track.  Some of my greatest memories were sitting around on the High Jump pit bitching away w/ the other girls on my relay team about how much we hated running that mile relay.  But deep down I know we secretly loved being on that relay team.

And the following year I joined the Cross Country team and hated running there too.  Cross Country brought me a whole slew of injuries (let’s face it, you put long distance all terrain running w/ someone as clumsy as me and there are bound to be a few) to add to my already hatred of distance running (and 3.2 miles (5K) is a lot further than a quarter of a mile, or 400 M for my non US friends).  The only highlight was that it meant that I had more athletic tape than anyone on the team so that when the boys’ team wanted to play stick ball I was a contributor and could help them make a new ball if Coach B had confiscated the old one.  I did love traveling in the vans to the meets on the weekends and freezing in my uniform and red tights and ingesting nothing but gatorade and oranges until after that 3.2 miles where I would barf…b/c I hated running and it hurt.  I ran on twisted ankles and shin splints through rivers and up and down hills and through open fields of tall grass and was usually one of the last from my team in, but I loved the way people cheered me on.  But I sure hated running.

And I ran winter track in between seasons.  In college I would get up in the mornings and run for the hell of it, not b/c I enjoyed it, but b/c it was something to do and I was used to fitting it in.  I just always did it, even though I loathed the way it made my lungs burn and my legs want to explode and my head ache.  I didn’t slow down until I became pregnant.  Then I switched to walking if I wasn’t spending all of my time barfing.

When I joined the Navy I hated running even more.  We did plenty of it.  Miles and miles of it a day in Boot.  That was when I found out that in addition to all the things I hated about running in the past I could now add peeing my pants, b/c now my precious child had damaged my sphincter on her way out.  I couldn’t sprint, and if I ran more than a mile I was sure to have wet pants at the finish, no matter how many times I went before I left.

I kept doing it, though, and at one point I was up to almost seven miles a day while wearing maxi pads to help.  That is when I noticed my legs felt like they were being hit w/ hammers at every stride.  While one would think that, as much as I hated running over all of those year and would swear at anyone who provoked me into it (Mimi can attest to this), when the doctor told me I should never do it again that I would have been relieved, one would be wrong.  As I transitioned from running into swimming, and later into yoga and pilates, realizing that my body was slowing down and no longer allowing me to beat on it the way that I used to, I realized that I didn’t really hate running.

Now, as I drive home and see neighborhood people out running in the mornings w/ their dogs, as much as I always hated running and loathed the though of it, as much as I would grumble and swear while tying my shoes, as much as I would joke about how it was torture while pulling on my red tights, as much as I would call Coach a sadist while hugging him after practice, as much as I would brag that my doctor said my body wasn’t meant for running, I silently cry a little to myself inside.  I secretly wish that I could get out there and hit the pavement one more time, free and w/o worry.  I wish I could just take off and feel the wind on my face and the burn in my lungs and the blood pounding in my ears.  I long for the churning in my stomach that only means that the moment I stop everything is going to come rushing out.  I miss not worrying that every movement I make is going to feel like I am being beaten w/ a baseball bat.  I quietly ache to not ache in every joint and muscle long enough to beat my feet against the ground.

And I cry just a little.

I hate running, but I hate accepting defeat even more.