When the Fat Lady Runs

The inevitable happened three weeks ago.

It wasn't even 10 am, but it was already over 90 degrees. I knew that would make my Sunday run tough, but I was really struggling. My knee was a bit twitchy, and this new route was literally all hills. I just couldn't get back into a good headspace as I slowed to a walk and turned my music all the way up. I was very frustrated and ready to call it a day.

Suddenly, a minivan crawled up next to me. The driver must have been in her late 40s; perfectly quaffed and dressed in her Sunday best.

"Honey!" she yelled from the driver's seat. "Honey, you shouldn't be doing that at your size!"

I smiled, waved, and continued on as if I hadn't heard her. This wasn't the first time a stranger has commented on my size or choice of exercise, and it most certainly won't be the last. When I was a junior in college and a doctor suggested that I try running to lose that Freshman 15 that never quite went away, a group of college-aged frat boys drove past me and yelled, "Lose some weight, you fat bitch!"

Which...was exactly what I was trying to do at the time, so I'm not 100% sure what message these Einsteins wanted to convey.

Strangers constantly feel the need to comment on my size; fat people are just about the last group that it's socially acceptable to openly mock, after all. And while that sucks, it doesn't negate the fact that some fat people are otherwise healthy, while some aren't.

I constantly straddle that line.

So, why am I showing you a picture of my most recent vitals?

Because I know you're curious.

Because I'm used to having to explain myself.

Because every conversation I have about running generally involves a "concerned" friend telling me they don't want to see me drop dead of a heart attack.

Because fat people shouldn't run.

Thing is, I don't run for weight loss. That's not what this is about.

'80s kids might remember Ronald Reagan's Presidential Fitness Challenge. I don't know for sure, but I'm assuming that The Mile Run was part of this grandiose attempt at elementary school torture. Remember The Mile Run? Every year we were forced onto the playground and told to run as fast as we could. The sporty boys were generally off like bolts of lightning, and the popular girls (who all took gymnastics) were right on their heels. Everyone else just sort of slogged along, and I usually trailed behind them all, hoping and praying that I didn't end up dead last.

Thus began my lifelong hatred of running.

I did try several times throughout the past 30-odd years to run for health and weight loss (like that one time in college), but I just couldn't get into it. Running was dumb, and I didn't understand the point unless I was being chased by a serial killer or a bear. Or both.

I honestly couldn't tell you what changed when I turned 39. Perhaps I got scared of turning 40. Perhaps it was the fact that my father was about to marry a marathoner. Perhaps I was just bored. But a few weeks into the last year of my 30s, I decided that I was going to run a 5K before my 40th birthday.

It was a lofty goal, but I read enough Facebook success stories and Instagram influencer posts to convince me to actually stick to it. And then I signed up for a Halloween-themed 5K nine months away, paid money for it, and started "training."

Insert training montage here, I suppose:

The first time I ran more than two minutes without stopping or gasping for air, I felt like a beast.

The first time I ran for 5 straight minutes without stopping or gasping for breath, I felt like an actual athlete.

The first time I ran without counting down the minutes when I could take a walking break, I felt like crying.

It was a game-changer. Suddenly I had something that was completely mine. When I ran, I didn't have to worry about anyone else's needs and wants but my own. I had no deadlines, and I didn't have to think about anyone else's issues.

Heck, I didn't have to think.

It rained on the day of my very first 5K, and I loved every agonizing minute my socks squished the soles of my battered and soaking wet sneakers. When I crossed the finish line 38 minutes and 42 seconds later, I cried; partly because I was filled with a peaceful relief and partly because I had to stop and return to real life.

They are complicated emotions that I have even now, three years later.

Every Sunday I run 3.5 miles down a long country road that weaves through the forest. I vary the route occasionally (as was the occasion of the Mini-Van Incident I described above), but I much prefer this route to anything else. My family calls this my Sunday Run-day, but I like to think of it as my version of church. This is where I can concentrate on breath filling my lungs, on the rhythm of my footfalls, and on the forest sounds around me.

This is my peace, my meditation, and my Zen. I can be one with the world around me, and I can hear the Universe singing through my veins.