I despise running.

I was lucky enough my whole life that I never really had to exercise. I’ll admit that is catching up with me as I approach 50 with a pot belly I’d slice off with a carving knife if I could. The stupid commercial asking if you could “pinch an inch” is taunting me now.

I was on the skinny side my whole life. Something I hated because strangers felt perfectly justified in telling me how skinny I was, never recognizing they might be triggering something in me. Besides, it’s just fucking rude.

I avoided exercise because, in my day, it was to lose weight more than to get healthy. I didn’t have an ounce to lose so I was grateful for any excuse not to work out. It was the Zombie 5K that did it. It looked like fun and I had a friend to run with. We trained and, frankly, I commend her for putting up with my grumbling ass. She didn’t let me quit, she listened to me bitch and we ran.

Once I was able to do it, I didn’t want to lose it so I kept running. I ran around the neighborhood and ran more races. My husband and I ran an obstacle 5K, a beach one, one in Key West, one that had a leg of the course running straight into the winds left over from a hurricane. I pissed and moaned with each one but reminded myself that I worked hard to get to that point.

Then, I fell. Literally. I bloodied the shit out of my knees. Then, I fell again.

Done and done.

It’s been years since I’ve run.

Two days ago, I set my alarm and marked my calendar. I’m training to run a 5K and, I’ll tell you what—it sucks balls! I hate every moment of it. They tell you that once you get going, the adrenaline kicks in and you get a runner’s high. Fuck that! That’s pure bullshit. Every step and every second is mind-numbingly boring and I count each millisecond until I can stop. The music is nice but it doesn’t distract me for one moment. I know exactly how many songs I’ve listened to and how many more before I can stop. I am an expert mathematician when I’m running. I can calculate huge equations involving distance, number of steps, temperature, time, number of inhalations vs. exhalations , wind velocity, elevations, and gravitational force. I can pinpoint the exact click of the second hand on the clock that marks the last step of that workout. The only positive is the gratification of having done it—after the fact. Like crossing something off the list.

So, every morning my alarm goes off at 6:30 am and the message flashes “5K, Fuckface!” because that is the kind of motivation I require.

Herndon Turkey Trot, here I come!