The running man wore a rictus of pain but forced a greeting through it as he passed me. “Good morning” he gasped, raising his hand in greeting. As we continued in opposite directions in opposite ways — he, running and I, walking — I wondered yet again about this self-inflicted torture that some people engage in.
Few of the people that I see foot-smacking the pavement look happy to be doing so. They pound past me, glancing at their watches and grimacing in what I assume is pain. Older people are running so slowly that they can be passed by a three-year-old pushing a balance bike. They huff and puff and sweat and strain to achieve a goal. A website dedicated to health and fitness, Shape.com, says that running is the best exercise that we can get. Running reduces our resting heart rate and decreases our chances of dying from heart disease. Running also produces “two feel-good chemicals, endorphins and endocannabinoids.” The endocannabinoids are like THC, the mood-altering chemical in marijuana. (The runner’s high is real.) Some other benefits to pounding your feet to a pulp are strengthened joints and leg muscles and the burning of calories.
I’ve had two running experiences, and both ended badly. In high school, I went out for track, despite having been a swimmer most of the time. My ego had me pounding around the basement of our triangular shaped high school building, and it did not take long before the long muscles in my thighs, unused to being compacted, screamed in rebellion. My legs were so sore that they could not support my weight to sit down. I would come to a chair in class and collapse into it. No more track for me. My second foray was when Bride One and I decided to “get into shape.” We started running together, rounding the neighborhood in a somewhat leisurely fashion. Bride One was far more serious than I, though. I dropped out to sit on the lawn and shout encouragement each time she passed our house. In later years, she hired a running coach who helped her to her dream of smashing her feet for 26.2 miles. She ran in the New York City marathon, the London marathon and part of the Hawaii marathon. When I told her that I was going to write about the exquisite misery of running, she laughed. Her running coach told her to always compose her face into a pleasant look, for that communicated something positive to the rest of her body; the grimace did not. She has a picture of herself with a little smile as she crossed the finish line in New York.
A man riding a small Mo-Ped-type vehicle putted past me in the bike lane as I strode the sidewalk; He eased the vehicle to the curb just ahead of me and sat on the bike, glancing behind him. He appeared to be older than me, and as I pulled near, he turned on the seat and quietly asked if he could say something to me. I assented and he told me, “You’re walking and you’re taking your time about it. That’s good. That’s the way to stay healthy.” I nodded at him and continued walking.
The health tracker on my phone records my activity and gives me my steps this week as compared to last, and my average this year as opposed to the last. It does not say if my work is better or worse, just greater, or fewer. And I’m not groaning and grimacing as I walk my way to health.
cjon3acd@att.net