the road rose up to taunt me.Last week the young man who sold me my new running shoes asked me a lot of questions. Since being pulled over last month, I freeze up when anyone in uniform asks me a question. You should have seen the slack-jawed look and heard the accompanying inarticulate explanation of the origin of the sage bundle on the dash when I went through the Agricultural Inspection Station. The uniformed sales staff at Roadrunner Sports are almost as intimidating as those officers who interrogated me, and the questions were harder to answer. "How many miles a week are you running?" stopped me in my tracks. Since he was getting ready to spend time analyzing my step on a special sensor and my stride on a treadmill, I thought he deserved a real answer. "Um...it can't possibly be many...maybe 3 to 4 times five or six." He looked at K., who translated with an audible eye roll, "She goes 15-25 miles a week. I'll be at REI."
But since then, I have been giving it serious thought. So today I chose to run at the State Park because every 10th of mile is painted on the asphalt. That only helps if you remember why you went that way and remember to stay on the asphalt instead of going on to the dirt trail. So I still can't give the information most runners have at the ready when they're asked, "How far do you run?" I don't even want to know how not-far I ran today. I do know it was slow and didn't need that road sign to rub it in!
No comments:
Post a Comment