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For Mr. White

Posted October 1, 2008

I'm a runner.

Now don't get too excited. Don't ask me what my 5K time is and expect something blazingly fast...it's 27:30, and it just about killed me to manage that. Don't ask me how many marathons I've done and expect a laundry list...I'm finished three half-marathons (13.1 miles) in the last five years, and I don't know if I'll ever finish another one again.

Running, for me, just makes me a happier, more balanced person. I'm sure everyone that reads this blog has by now picked up on the fact that I can be a tad high-strung, a tad "stressy." I am one of those people who needs an outlet, somewhere or something to plug into and let the batteries just recharge. My writing has always been an outlet, but I've found lately that so much negativity was building up within me at times that even that activity was a struggle. Sometimes I'd finish a poem and realize that I was angrier or more stressed afterwards than I was at the beginning.

So I got back to running a few weeks ago after taking a full year off to deal with some health problems (the PCOS, go back a few blogs, it'll catch you up). The first time back at the track was incredibly humbling. For someone who once accidentally ran 15 miles, I sure had a lot of trouble eeking out a half-mile without wanting to stop and walk. My body is different now than it was when I was 18 or 19. My knees are different...they don't take the pounding as lightly as they did then. Not to mention, there's nothing like a full-time, 50-hour-a-week job to drain your energy levels and your inspriration.

I knew I had to get off the track and get somewhere beautiful. Last Sunday morning, when Jonathan took off for a weeklong business training trip, I needed to get out. So I packed up the dog and her stretchy leash, threw on my favorite tank top and Nike bottoms, and headed to Cleveland Park (near downtown Greenville). And I started to feel that rumbling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves.

I always get a tad bit nervous before a run.

I blame it on misinformed, misogynistic Mr. White. In fifth-grade, my overbearing excuse for a science teacher decided that he was the one to put us all through the "Presidential Fitness Test" (apparently he hadn't heard the news that we had P.E. teachers for that). The test involved sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and a one-mile, timed run. As a 10 year-old girl, I guess Mr. White expected me and all the other girls to be able to crank out 10 pull-ups. He scolded several of us when we couldn't do it. Swing from the monkey bars? No problem...but not pull-ups. When we couldn't do 30 full push-ups in a minute, he scolded the girls again. And when my mile time registered a fairly average, healthy 10 minutes or so, he scolded me horribly, in front of the whole class. He told me I was out of shape, fat, slow, and that I couldn't do it. It was horrible. Yeah, he was a huge loser.

I went home and cried that day, and promised myself that I'd score big on the next one-mile run. I was 10 years old, but I began running a bit. Just around the neighborhood, maybe a mile or so - but I actually began training for the next year's fitness test. When that one-miler came around, I passed the "President's" standards (Really? What is THAT?) with flying colors and a time of 8:30. Years later I would run a personal record of 6:15, but it wouldn't matter. I would and always will be nervous before every run. Just in case Mr. White was right.

So you can imagine that rush I get from proving that silly man wrong every couple of days. No, I'm not fast. And the time that I ran in fifth grade is basically the mile time I average these days. But I'm just fine with that. Plus, I'm pretty sure the only thing that's running up these days for ol' Mr. White is his cholesterol - he wasn't nearly as spry as his judgmental ways would've led you to believe. Just a middle-aged man with a big ego, looking for a girl to pick on in order to make himself feel better...some little boys never grow up.

I don't run because I'm trying to look like Britney Spears. I don't run because I'm fast...because I'm certainly not.

I run because it's the only thing that pulls that stress out of me and leaves me too tired to care anymore. I run because it's one of the most special things I can do with my father and because I know he won't be able to run with me forever. I run because my future children deserve a healthy mom who will take them to the park, throw 'em in the jogging stroller, and just go.

And I run because I know that someday there's going to be a jerk telling my son or my daughter that they're not fast enough, not good enough, or whatever it is that people like that decide to do. And I'll be right there to tell my kid: "Well, lace up your shoes and let's prove 'em wrong."