Running Again

Kudos to Eric and Brian for winning the office pool for, “How Long Before Frank Gets Injured While Playing Intramural Basketball?” Eric had the closest bid at 25 minutes. Brian had the most accurate prediction with first game, injury followed by reentry to the game.

I made it 22 minutes without incident. Then came a freakish foot complication that could best be described as a sharp pain on the left side of my right foot that magically appeared at the outset of the second half. Luckily, I manned up and made a return in garbage time of a 60-13 blowout in which my team led 37-0 at the half. Yes, we’re talking basketball (and Justin, I’m still sorry you had to play with that collection of … not so good basketball players).

Playing basketball is a terrible idea for me. I have no business being on the court. Everytime I step on, something ridiculously unfortunate tends to happen. There was the time last year when I ran full-steam ahead into a teammate’s shoulder (this teammate happened to have about eight inches and 100 pounds on me). The result: ruptured eardrum and one hell of a headache. Then there was the time I strained my groin while dribbling the ball upcourt (I switched direction and felt a pop. How old am I again?). My personal favorite, of course, is the time a guy jumped and landed on my thumb, promptly causing multitudes of pain and opening up a floodgate of F-bombs.

Basketball is not my place, but, like a dumbass, I keep going back for more. Impending injuries notwithstanding, I am managing to get into some kind of shape. Jason and I have stepped up the lifting regimen and we’re even including cardio exercises. Honestly, ever since my lackluster track career concluded, I’ve had no desire to begin a consistent cardio workout schedule. There have been moments where I took to the track with wide-eyed hopes of a renewed interest, but every attempt has been stamped with a bold FAIL.

Tonight, for the first time since I can remember, I ran. I’ve never been a runner. I’ve run track since the seventh grade, I’ve run alongside some elite athletes and trained with some noteworthy names, but I’ve never been a runner. Runners run because they want to. I ran because I wanted to make a team, because I wanted to compete. All those years that I worked my ass off at Casa Grande High School over the summer, running bleacher laps with Nash, the Wheelers, Sky and the rest of the crew, it was all about competition. It’s easy to tell whether you like something or not. Could I live without running? Absolutely. As soon as my track career ended – no more races to run, coaches to impress, opponents to beat – I stopped running. And fuck, who can blame me? Running sucks – all you do is run! There’s no ball, no points, direct contact with your opponent. At practice, you run. At meets, you run. In the off-season, you run. There isn’t really much to it.

At some point, I enjoyed running. I can’t pinpoint that moment. Even in fifth and sixth grades, when there was only one meet, the Westside Relays, I ran to win. In the limited practice sessions leading up to that one meet, I distinctly remember being immensely pissed when two guys in my class beat me in one of our “long distance” workouts (it was 800 meters, tops). I couldn’t stand losing. Just like I couldn’t stand getting my ass kicked as a junior while my sister mopped up league titles. I couldn’t stand ending my senior season by disqualification only to see a repeat in my final year of junior college. I couldn’t stand getting cut by Cal Poly. I ran because I didn’t want to get beaten, not because I had fun doing it.

Tonight, I ran for fun. No watch, no goal, no competitive motivation. All I had were my Asics and an irritable bowel. (Note to self: steak and garlic bread is better suited for a post-workout meal than a 10-minutes before-workout meal. This blog was getting too sappy – had to loosen the mood a bit.)

This might just be a two-week phase that goes stale after again realizing that running sucks. I can’t even guarantee that I’ll run tomorrow (in fact, I can almost guarantee I won’t because I know I’ll be sore and I’ve become a pansy in my old age). I truly hope this is the spark that gets me back into running, but I know there are no guarantees. If I don’t want to train, I’m not going to force myself.