I do not want to run.
That was not intended to be some sort of philosophical statement.
I literally do not want to run.
A few years back, I made a pack with a good friend to train for and run in a marathon.
That never happened. Like me, he doesn’t like to run and he doesn’t want to run.
I envy people who run, but I am not sure most of them actually like to run, either.
Runners never look all that happy when you see them running.
Their lips and jaws are either super tight or bobbing up and down like a black bean on a trampoline.
The whole thing looks painful.
Runners rarely say “hi” or smile when you see them on a bike path.
That’s the way it should be.
Only extreme athletes, fitness models and creepers can do that.
Normal people look like the Joker when they try smiling while running. Try it yourself if you do not believe me.
The Miami Valley has a lot of runners and draws even more.
The Air Force Marathon expects 15,000 people to participate in the Sept. 15 marathon, a half-marathon and 10K race. Thousands have pledged to take up running in solidarity with those impacted by the tragic Boston Marathon bombing earlier this year.
I wish I could do it, too. But I can’t.
As much as I’ve tried to be a runner over the years, the fact is that I am not and never will be.
I am as fast as a goose blocking the road and as agile as a tree standing in the forest.
Jason Voorhees of the Friday the 13th movie franchise fame, would catch me within the first 15 second of the movie.
My legs move faster when I tell them to walk than when I ask them to run.
“Could you move faster please? You are embarrassing us. I’ve only loved you,” I tell my legs as a world of runners pass us up with ease.
This hating running thing is nothing new.
I couldn’t run when I was a kid either.
I tried, boy did I ‘try.’ I even went out for the track team in the junior high.
Confusion: I cut across a parking lot instead of running the full course during the first stages of tryouts and still didn’t get a time fast enough to make the track team.
I settled for field and sort of learned how to throw a shot put. To this day I question why the U.S. Olympic Committee never called.
Kick ball was not my game of choice, neither was tag, hide and go seek, dodge-ball or the game where kids run around a field and lock arms with all of those they catch. We called it “blob” or was that “mob.” Either way the name should be “stupid game Amelia will never master.”
Good thing typing doesn’t require swiftly moving one’s legs in a rapid manner that propels one forward.
Are you a runner? Why do you do that to yourself?
Contact this columnist at arobinson@DaytonDailyNews.com or Twitter.com/DDNSmartMouth