A Glutton for Punishment

This is a word for word, cough for cough, doubled over debilitating hack for doubled over debilitating hack recount of the thoughts in my head during my four mile run this morning. I was too lazy, tired and nauseated to be able to focus on writing so instead, I am (cough cough) holding my recorder at the base of my chin as I lay on my back on my purple shag rug, where I have collapsed in out-of-shape misery.

Fuck me (Rolls over with hand on side).

Enjoy.

I forgot that I am a runner. The dual forces of Nature and Nurture (or if you prefer a Christianity-based telling of the story of creation, then please refer to the force of God) crafted me into the mold of Runner -- I'm lanky, have bountiful lungs (Cough, cough, cough) and possess the inate inability to do any other sport besides one that requires one foot in front of the other (Add the direction of  'turning left' and you've morphed cross country running into track) well. And although my running log of the past year might show differently, I actually used to be a fairly good runner, regardless of what Google searches of my name may or may not tell you.

My talent as a junior high, high school and eventually Division I collegiate runner most definitely stems from my passion for the sport. Something about running is just so refreshing and personal; it's always served as a sanctuary for me. I could always lace up my shoes and head out the door for a four or eight or 15 mile run and feel much, much better than before, both mentally and physically speaking. And even though I run more recreationally these days (I refuse to call myself a jogger...which I believe I have the right to do considering I've logged in a sub-5 minute mile, a thank you), that passion and love for the burning muscles and aches and pains of high mileage weeks still live in me.

That hidden passion is probably why last week my friend asked (via Facebook, of course) if I wanted to be on his firm's team for the upcoming Shamrock Run. Regardless of the fact that I'm still recovering from having Shingles and further disregarding that I haven't logged a step in my Nikes since the day before Christmas Eve, I merrily signed up for the 15K length of the run (15 kilometers is a smidgen over nine miles).

Merrily might be the wrong word. It is much too happy and optimistic of a modifier describing my, what I can only describe as slightly insane and poorly-thought-out decision.

Hastily is a more appropriate adverb.

Six days passed once I was "officially a member of Team Cowlitz County Prosecutor's Office" before I realized that in less than two months I was going to have to run nine miles. Now, the runner in me, even without training, would be able to run nine miles. Of course, the competitor in me would take the first two miles of the fun run at a sub-7 minute pace, peter out around mile three, sludge through mile four before doing what my high school teammates and I dubbed the Truffle Shuffle (It's the run we imagined that Chunk from The Goonies would be capable of doing) for the remaining five miles. So I decided to lace up my shoes and train like a good runner ---

--- Or what used to be a good runner. I am so, so beyond being a physically fit, let alone a good runner. Fourteen months of spotty running have left me terribly, terribly out of shape.

Sidebar: Now, I hear my coworkers and friends guffawing my statement that I am, indeed out of shape but you've got to understand that I actually am: I might still wear size 2 jeans and be able to go out in public braless without really anybody noticing but I am more Beyonce-ish today than I was when I graduated college (And, if you're comparing the 2010 version of Amie to the post-high school graduation Amie, I'd look like Kirstie Alley ala Fat Actress standing next to Calista Flockhart ala Ally McBeal) and less likely to take the stairs than the elevator simply because stairs take the wind out of me and make my once-strong quadriceps burn. End sidebar.

Getting back into shape is always the worst pain anyone could go through (This coming from a Shingles survivor). My four mile run today nearly killed me. Each street I turned on (I'm too much of a pansy to run the hills of Forest Park quite yet) came with an increasing wave of agony. My stomach cramped up in mile one with such intensity that I wanted to blame the freshly purchased soymilk I splashed my morning coffee with for going bad (It isn't bad; the expiration date doesn't come to pass for another six weeks) or perhaps the banana that I didn't eat before heading out the door.

Burning lungs set in during mile two; each inhale and exhale felt like my lungs were  being seared on an old cast iron fry pan that wasn't stick-proof. Rounding myself west up Burnside for the start of mile three, my legs began to feel the tension too.

Burnside became my Everest. Each block I passed -- 17th, 18th, 19th -- was like a major basecamp on my trek up to 23rd. As I watched the cars gliding down eastbound Burnside, carrying people sitting comfortably while drinking coffee or bluetooth talking, I couldn't help but think how wonderful it would be to jump in front of one of the cars and let it run me over. As I passed NW 20th Place (That bastard of a street that adds another block to my run; I mean really, what's the point of having a NW 20th Avenue AND a NW 20th Place?), I let the thought of being hit by a car pass over me; the screaming fury of the end of mile three would cease and I would be totally pain free -- albeit after intensive and overly expensive surgery --  recovering in a hospital bed, doped up on more pain meds than I could ever imagine.

But of course, after I learned to walk again I know that somewhere, at some point, over some new social media, a friend would pop up and ask me if I wanted to join his team for a fun run and the runner, that damn glutton for punishment, in me would say yes and I'd be here, nearly passed out on my studio floor from exhaustion and pain, training for a fun run all over again.