Rundown

I started running recently. Not much, but enough. And it makes me wonder...what is it about running that people like so much? I've talked to so many people about it (including my wife) and the answers I get are ridiculous! "Running is relaxing...just me and the road." "I have my best ideas when I run." "It's a time to reflect on nature." "Running gives me a chance to think about the beauty of good and the danger of evil, to really capture the essence of God and all he has done for us through his sacrifice of Christ on the cross." That last one was my pastor.
Do these people not feel what I feel? Are they not bound by the same laws of gravity I find in my neighborhood? If someone asked me what I thought about running, the last word that would come to my mind would be "relaxing." "Excruciating," "agonizing," and "self-inflicted pain" are just a few of the words that pop into my head first when I reflect on running. And I don't reflect on it unless I have to.
So why do some people love running, and I hate it? Here are my thoughts:
I'm a big guy. Gravity has a lot more to work with when I run.
I don't have all the cool running clothes that real runners have. They're in their little "tech shirts" and "tight tech shorts" and I'm in my "heavy cotton shirt", "knee-length floppy gym shorts," and "grass-stained walking shoes."
I'm not in touch with nature.
I'm running because I have to, they're running because they want to. This is probably the biggest reason.
I have to run. Believe me, if I didn't have to, I wouldn't. My weight has gotten over the acceptable amount for someone my height and build, and over the last couple of years, it has started to show. I had to do something, and I couldn't stop eating at McDonald's, so here I am, every morning. I get up at 6:00 am, a time of which I was previously unaware, and put on my heavy cotton shirt, knee-length floppy gym shorts, and grass-stained walking shoes and start my morning run. And I don't look pretty doing it, as I'm sure is hard to imagine. I look good for maybe the first tenth of a mile. Then my jaw just sort of drops open and I heave oxygen into my lungs. I use "heave" as an onomatopoeia. Say the word, "heave." Now say it like a really old man about to die. That's the sound I make when I run. My eyes get kind of droopy and sweat starts pouring down my face, blocking my vision. By the half-mile, I'm swerving all over the road. My heavy cotton shirt is soaked through and the heavy cotton boxers I'm wearing under my knee-length floppy gym shorts need a good wringing. I've actually seen mothers jerk their children behind them, screaming as I pass by.
But I don't stop. I keep going and pushing until I finish that 1.2 miles. I don't know why 1.2 miles is the cutoff point, but I know that once I hit that marker, my body just kind of shuts down. And once I'm done for the day, it's the most satisfying feeling in the world. But when noon rolls around, I start thinking about tomorrow morning at 6:00 am and the satisfying feeling vanishes. But I just keep in mind that as long as I keep going, as long as I keep my feet pushing concrete, I will be ready for that 1K race sooner or later.