Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls; I have an announcement to make. I, yes I, have been going on runs – runs for Christ’s sake. Oh but Tanysia, you might say, that’s nothing new, you play rugby after all. Of course I do; what the hell does that have to do with it? I play a contact sport, willingly subject myself to hours in the weight room and the whims of a coach who is more competitive than I am with a few beers and a pong table, but I do not like running. In fact, I more or less detest it. Yet, here I am, voluntarily folding up my laptop every second or third day and putting down the rice crackers to tie up my running shoes.
I have never been much of a runner, failing out of beep tests in grade school before I even broke a sweat and secretly praying my strep throat tests would come back positive during the cross country unit, although I can admit to a history of jock-like tendencies. If there was a boy to wrestle, a girl to body check or point guard to stuff, I was there. Ask me to be there faster than at walking pace though, and you were to be sadly disappointed. I would get there when I got there, never mind that cardiovascular bullshit.
Falling in love with sports, though, did eventually force me to face the fact that running to the ball was not just something my coach was yelling at me to do, but actually benefited my desire to win. So fine, I gave in and began to run a little; I would grudgingly do sprints at practice, tag along at the back during team runs and maybe book it down the field once or twice a game when the adrenaline peaked.
But never have I ever taken the initiative to hit the trail outside my house to run for a couple of kilometres of my own volition.
Rugby season this year, however, placed a solid boot to my behind and has gotten my ass to move like it never has before. This being the result of many months worth of my very own sweat, I was naturally loathe to let my newly minted behind soften over the Christmas break and concluded that I would actually follow my coach’s ridiculous advice and go run. So, gathering my resolve, I laced up my runners and stepped out onto the porch; this was it. Surveying the paved battleground before me I tentatively took a couple of long strides and then a couple more. Okay, not so bad. Didn’t I do this at game pace with the team three times a week? Next thing I knew, I’d done the five kilometre loop around my neighbourhood and had actually made it back without collapsing in convulsions, fainting, or shrivelling due to the excess energy burn (this would be quite the feat considering my stature, but you never know, right?). For whatever reason, running had become not only easier but semi-enjoyable. That’s right, running.
It wasn’t until one sunny afternoon when spring fever had me jittering in lecture like a six year old in need of a pee break and I ditched out on class to go running that it actually dawned on me. I was enjoying the activity for the first time in my life and it felt good. Fuck, I might as well have discovered I was superwoman. Getting a call from my mother shortly after this revelation, I jumped on the chance to gloat and quickly regretted it when I heard my mother experience what I’m sure was a quasi-aneurism.
“You- you did what? You went running?” she gasped, before telling me that she’d call me back once she’d had a bit of port.
Sadly enough, anyone I’ve known for a good proportion of my life responded to the discovery of my newfound like – I still can’t bring myself to “love” such an uncompetitive past time – with much the same shock. I suppose I wasn’t the only one who noticed I’d rather walk and miss the bus than risk running. Well hell, this new voluntary exercise thing has me past that and my youthful aversion to anything cardiovascular, and man do I ever plan on running down the competition.
