For some reason, I decided it was a perfect time to go for a run. Now, when I was young, I was the fastest kid on my block. That's right--the whole block. I won a race when I was in the 6th grade and from that time forth, I became The Track Star. This title was pulled out anytime anyone needed something that would require someone to go a long distance to retrieve. Dad needed a tool out of the garage that was half a mile away, "Hey, run and get the wrench, Track Star!" Oh, yes, sir. I'm delighted to offer my talents for the betterment of mankind and world peace. Brother left his shovel in the midst of the potato hills he just finished digging, "Will you get my shovel for me, Track Star?" Absolutely! I know my skills will save your day and possibly prevent you from getting cancer. I fell for the Track Star line a lot . . . a lot.
I pulled on my yoga pants that have never experienced yoga and tied on my shiny, white running shoes that are two years old and have rarely experienced running. It was a perfect morning for a run.
I ran around one block. One.
Then I came home and landed on the couch in a fit of Oh. My. Word. I. Think. I. May. Die.
I feel a bit like Bob: I run. I run now. I'm a a runner, with the street and the shoes and the wind in my hair. You know, a runner.