Not Being Chased--From Couch to Half Marathon in 3 Months

I've always had a crush on running. I buy the shoes, the outfits, and the magazines. I download the applications--logmyrun, for instance. I stare, open-mouthed, at runners with the type of reverence and admiration fit for super-humans in their majesty. The only setback for me in running has been the actual running. Typically, when I'm staring all reverential, and dreamy-eyed at runners, I am doing so from a Starbucks window. "Look at 'em go," I whisper, and sip my nonfat latte. Now don't get me wrong, I've intermittently tried over the years to gain a real routine of running, but I just get so out of breath. Running is really rather difficult.

"Run Marathon" was on my unofficial bucket list, but it was a pleasant, harmless lie I told myself. This way, on my deathbed I could lament, "but I never even got to run my marathon... " when I bartered for more time on this messy little planet. Unfortunately for me, three of the nurses I work with just finished their first half marathon, two of whom are over 40 years old. They say they did this for the achievement, but I know in reality they did this to shame me.

When Robin returned to work, all 44 years old, and fired up about her accomplishment, she was in that annoying place of exercise zeal that a person that has recently discovered the non-juice bar side of the gym is in. She just wouldn't pipe down with her, 'you can do its!' and her, 'it was amazings!'

I smiled at her, content with her belief in me, and my belief in myself-- that I too could run a half marathon--why ever test that theory? As with all things regular exercise: it's the thought that counts.

"DUDE! You can't run a half-marathon," Stacy, the nursery nurse, exclaimed. Who had invited her into this conversation?

"Pardon?" I asked. "I could totally run a half-marathon. I have just chosen not to my whole life."

She began to crack up. "Seriously? When's the last time you ran for real? NO way are you going to actually really run for 13 miles. Thirteen miles? Thirteen miles! It's a little harder than Zumba, honey. HILARIOUS!" She said.

I was beginning to think she didn't believe I could do it. I had to think about this. My dad and I ran sporadically, and though we eventually did respectable distances on occasion, it wasn't what any normal person would call fast or athletic. And yeah, the last time I ran seriously I think I had a mascot on my shorts, but whatever, I certainly could train and run a half-marathon!

"Chick, I know you didn't just tell me I can't run a half-marathon!" I fired.

She continued to laugh. Her disbelief was becoming ever more convincing. I whipped out my Droid, and googled "half-marathons San Francisco Bay area."

"What the hell are you doing?" Stacy asked, when she'd found her lungs.

"I'm signing up for a half-marathon," I said, as I fished for my debit card. The race I chose was 75 dollars to enter.

"Oh come on! You're crazy. I dare you...oh please. You CAN NOT do this!"

"Yes I can. What do you know?" I asked. I then googled, "deaths associated with running marathons."

As it turns out, marathons do tend to lose a person or two before, or shortly after, the finish line. I'm not concerned about the dying, but I am concerned about the press. I don't want to be the girl who died at the finish line, because she's been MIA at the gym for 6 months or so. My goal in life has always been to not die stupidly, and so I'm thinking of getting a cardiologist on board for this endeavor, to act as a sort of heart nanny for the race.

The day after signing up for the half marathon, I came up to the unit from the hospital cafeteria with a doughnut in my bare hand.

"That doesn't look like marathon food," Serena, the youngest of the runners at 27, said to me smugly.

"Hmmm....is a knuckle sandwich marathon food, Serena? Don't let my giggles, and my talk of Jesus, and better days fool you, Blondie. I am a hoodlum," I responded,.

"Just sayin, you carb-load the night before the race, not all the way up to the race. You're gonna try and finish the race in under a day, right?"

"Last I heard, it isn't recommended that you carb-load the night before with beer and shots, but rumor has it, that's how you rolled for your race," I countered, my poor doughnut still resting innocently, not hurting anyone, in my open hand.

While we continued our unhealthy banter, our unit secretary Heather suddenly decided to take matters, (and her life), in her own hands and slapped the back of my doughnut-cradling hand.

My doughnut, in its agility and wisdom, launched arrogantly into the air, and landed icing up about 10 feet away on top of a book at the nurses' station.

As Serena and Heather worked to collect themselves from their stunned laughter, I piped up with, "the Lord has spoken. Clearly, I'm supposed to eat that doughnut. What doughnut would do such a thing of its own volition? Let that be a lesson to you, Heather," I said, and went to collect and eat my clever little breakfast.

Why am I writing this? It's simple, I'd like to inspire millions! I'm an artist, not an athlete. If I can run 13.1 miles, than everyone in the world not in a wheelchair, or in one of of those special beds for the morbidly obese can run 13.1 miles. No joke. I realized that paying for the race was simply not enough--75 dollars really will not make me or break me. My pride, apparently, will. I'm training, but already I'm seeing how easy it is to lose momentum, and making this particular goal public--well, it ups the ante. Saying,' I will run a half-marathon' and not doing it is like showing your underwear. And not your sexy, lacy, 'I wish you would look' panties, but more like your faded cartoon ones with the bleach stain. Those. Here's to running when you're not even being chased!