A Runner? Who Me?
Occasionally both here and in life, I’ll mention that I’m running. More than just occasionally I’ll append my comment that I am not, in the least bit, a runner. That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to be. Just because my body wasn’t designed to run doesn’t mean I can’t try. And try I do.
One could argue humans are designed to run. Okay, perhaps those without asthma, without short legs and short midsections, and those without barrel chests and apple-shaped bodies. I suffer all these, along with my age (I’ll be 56 in a few months), and yet, I still try to run.
Running is the only exercise I’ve discovered to date that keeps my apple-shaped body from becoming a planet-sized, apple-shaped body. It knocks out my lower belly overhang within a couple of months and keeps my ample back fat from scaring the neighbors during the warm summer months.
Three-to-four times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, I put myself through one of the P90X routines because nothing, nothing, builds lean muscle like P90X. All while continuing to try to run.
I love my treadmill. Yeah, so I’m not sure the mile-per-hour pace time is correct (it seems a little slow to me but I wouldn’t know a correct time from an incorrect time if it smacked me on the butt and called me Martha), and sometimes I worry that it, with me on it, is weakening our ceiling joists and all will come crashing down into the living room some day.
But overall, I couldn’t see living without it. We live in a charming neighborhood but it’s not one I feel comfortable running in. I’m not sure if that’s just me or not but my gut feeling isn’t going to change. Before I gave running a try last year, I walked a mile or two on my treadmill almost every day and dreamed of being able to someday do more. If it weren’t for my treadmill, I’m comfortable going on record to say that without it, I’d be a much heavier, less healthy person.
Notice I said person, not runner. I’m a runner who’s not a runner. Or maybe I am and I’m just in denial.
