My first thought as I left my neighborhood on foot: This is crazy. Running for fun? Who am I Steve Prefontaine? How'd I let myself get tricked into this?
My heart pounded like drummer Travis Barker was giving the performance of a lifetime inside my rib cage. My legs burned and my lungs wheezed like they had been wrapped in a steel vest.
It's a battle of heavyweight and middle-aged proportions, this thing they call running.
James Burns, sports editor
Blooper reels are filled with clips of pro runners breaking down mid-stride, losing their legs as if they were made of Jello, melting before they ever reach the finish line.
But let your fitness and diet slip for, say, a decade or so and the difficulty level spikes. Like your BPM.
Begrudgingly, I began taking night jogs about two months back on a dare. The wife didn't think I had a brisk two-mile run left in this sad sack of bones, so I set out to prove her wrong.
Fifteen minutes later, I returned beaten but victorious.
I lurched through the front door the way Frankenstein might. My calves shook from shock and if sweat could be stored and reused...
I could have filled a jacuzzi tub to soak and soothe my aching body in.
"Yep," I hurried in between heavy breaths, certain they'd be my last. "The old man's still got it."
Of course, she called my bluff, because that's what wives do. She suggested I make running a habit. Bless her cold, black heart.
Weeks and miles later, running has only become slightly easier.
I run at least a mile-and-a-half every night, not much by most standards, but enough to put a small dent into this can-o-cheese body I've sculpted.
My heart still pounds and my legs still scream, but my vision's clearer.
Let me explain.
I never understood why people ran for fun. If you're fast like Jamaican gold medalist Usain Bolt, I get it -- running is worthwhile because you've got a skill and gear no one else has.
But to run and be average ... and still have a great time? Without a ball? Sorry, I failed to see the value in it.
Then you start to pay attention to the runners around you. You learn their names and their stories.
You see people like Jon and Brenda Bressler-Mognis, their son Jake and the hundreds who turned up at the starting line for the Mog Jog in June.
You hear how Brenda, due for a bone-marrow transplant, battled vertigo, was forced to walk and...
Still finished, smiling as she crossed under the balloon arch at St. Paul Lutheran Church with her beautiful family.
It's then that you realize the purpose behind each footstep and each bead of sweat.
The summer and fall are the unofficial seasons of run, a stretch on the calendar full of 5Ks, half-marathons, marathons and triathlons.
Millions of runners, young and old, will brave extreme temperatures, potholes, cramps and fatigue in the next few months, chasing finish lines and horizon lines around the world.
Most of them, if not all of them, are a special kind of crazy. They run not on a dare, but because they feel compelled to.
They run for cancer survivors and veterans, the hospitalized and the sick.
They run in memory of loved ones -- friends and family members whose lives have been tragically and unapologetically cut short.
They run to live.
They run for a cause and a cure, donations and exposure.
They train for weeks and months, spending their free time not in malls or in front of TVs, but on the pavements, dirt roads and treadmills in their neighborhoods.
They run without concern of appearance.
Women, who would "Eek!" and "Ick!" at the onset of sweat, let it fall like raindrops. Grown men shed their jerseys and tattered college T-shirts and proudly wear purple and pink -- and in most cases, feel more secure in their manhood for doing so.
They punish and push their bodies because others can't, ignoring the silly aches and pains that come with putting one foot in front of the other.
They run with purpose.
Most of them, if not all of them, are a special kind of crazy. I get it now.
James Burns is sports editor of the Sun-Star. He can be reached at jburns@mercedsun-star.com.
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