The Closest I've Gotten to Death

   I love running. I run all the time: racing to the fridge, sprinting after the ice cream truck, jumping in a departing van, bolting upstairs to avoid unexpected guests, etc, etc. You might wonder how I came to be such a devoted runner, with all of my stamina and agility. Well, I can only give credit to the inspirational (homeschooler) group by the name of  "Running Club"; a distinguished society focused on instilling a passion for self-torture and shin splints.

   Every year my friend and I signed up for the club with the intent of getting some Phys Ed, and hoped that we might even end up enjoying it. But every year, on the first day, we'd step onto the Towpath of Hell, look at each other, and ask, "Why are we here?"

   It was during these sessions of bliss that I discovered what I was really created to be... and it wasn't a runner.

   That first year, we thought that the teacher's beginner method of two minute walking-running intervals was pathetic... until we got thirty seconds in and were near passing out. It didn't get much better with time, although we did manage to get a mile once (with every ounce of will-power we could muster). You know it's bad when your greatest wish is to jump into the murky, debris-littered waters of the canal beside you. 

   Everyone else appeared to gain something from the arduous workout, but somehow, even though we were the slowest ones, we seemed to be the only kids suffering from dehydration, exhaustion, cramps, heat stroke, and intense pain. I wish we could say that crossing the finish line made it all worthwhile, but somehow the urge to puke kind of distracted from the celebration. But hey, at least there were snacks afterwards. Sometimes I think that's the only reason we kept signing up.

   This pretty much sums up my running career:

   So take this as a warning. If you ever see me running again, you should run too, cause there's probably something chasing me.