By Sue Murphy
That’s it. After watching 72 hours of gut-wrenching television, I have decided to run.
Not for President. Goodness, no. I would have had to go through the primaries and attend a bunch of fundraising dinners and appear on “Meet the Press” to say, “My esteemed opponent is a crackpot.” No, I’m talking about actual running, you know, putting one foot in front of the other, which I’ve been doing for a long time but now I’d like to do it a little bit faster.
I watched a lot of the Olympic Games on television – swimming and pole vaulting and badminton – and most of the sports required some kind of equipment or worse, skill. While professional running is a practiced art, garden-variety running seems open to everyone who has shoes. There are people who run barefoot, but since I already have a trusty pair of sneakers, I think I’ll put them into play. Technically, they’re labeled “walkers” but I don’t think an alarm will sound if I break into a trot.
I don’t want to run competitively, although apparently I could. Earlier this year, at the tender age of 100, Ms. Ida Keeling ran the 100-meter dash in 1 minute, 17 seconds, which was quite an accomplishment. Yet, while the media was still singing her praises, Ms. Ella Mae Colbert of Chesnee, South Carolina, herself 100-plus, ran the same distance in 46 seconds. Of course, she did. No matter how old you are, no matter what you accomplish, there will be someone out there bent on doing you one better.
I don’t need that kind of pressure, so my running will be strictly for my own enjoyment. Actually, I don’t know if I will enjoy running at all, but the sight of those Olympic athletes going full steam around the track looked positively freeing, like opening up your windows on a blustery day and letting the wind blow all the dust off the coffee table.
I may not reach dust-busting speed right away. The last time I ran was in high school, and that was only because the homeowner’s porch light came on when my friends and I were clandestinely TP-ing their house. I wish I hadn’t done that, by the way. The TP-ing, not the running. It was wrong and I’m sorry. I can only hope that after 40 years all is forgiven.
My new running venture won’t be done at the same fear-driven pace, and since I’m just starting out, I think I’ll keep my garb low-key, no bling or long painted fingernails, even though they made the Olympic runners look fierce and flirty at the same time.
I’d be happy to take up their pre-run carbo-loading, though. Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been a champion carbo-loader for years. It’s part of the reason I want to start running, to unload some of those carbs. More than that, though, I want to see what it feels like to have the wind rushing through my hair – as long as the rushing doesn’t end with me falling headlong onto my neighbor’s driveway. I can see it now, the scraped knees, the knot on my head, the EMTs lifting me onto a stretcher shaking their heads, “Her shoes did say ‘walkers.’”
P. S. After this writing, I did run for seven days. But while my mind said, “Wow!” and my shoes held out just fine, my knees kept saying, “I don’t think so, old woman,” so I am back to walking. (Sigh) Perhaps I needed the bling after all.
