Those People

I'm hardly what anyone would call an athlete, armchair or otherwise. If pressed, I can probably come up with only about a half dozen names of professional sports teams. I can't catch a baseball. A few years ago, during a "subway series" of the Mets vs. the Yankees, someone said to me "It must be a very exciting time in New York" to which I could only reply, "Why is that?" I don't know how to dribble a basketball or hit a tennis ball. I don't know an A-Rod from a fishing rod. And other than 'don't let the very large men pile up on top of you', I don't understand the rules of football.

In high school (why does so much of life somehow bring us back to high school?) I went all four years without attending even one gym class. Not once. Every week when I was supposed to be down in the gym, throwing a ball or participating in some sport that I had no idea how to play, I'd quietly head to the school library, pick out a book and hope no one would notice. It was much safer among the bookshelves than heading down to the dangerous territory of the gymnasium, where the much feared competitve sports would be followed by the much more feared being the gay boy in the group showers.

So, since I've never considered myself an athlete, it comes as an enormous surpise that at the age of 46, I find I've somewhat joined their ranks. Last Tuesday at 5:45 AM, I was heading out the door with my running shoes on and bottle of water in my hand to do a 4-mile run. I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I passed and it occurred to me. I've become one of, as I call them "those people".

You've seen "those people". You're driving along through a rainstorm when over there, along the side of the road you see a lone person determinedly running, apparently oblivious to the fact that they're getting soaked. Or, you head out one morning before the sun has had the chance to come up and as you wipe the sleep from your eyes and curse the fates for forcing you out of your warm bed when you hear the slap-slap-slapping sound of two sneakers as they hit the ground, attached to the feet of a runner getting in their early morning jog. And when that happens you probably do what I do, shake your head and mutter to yourself "What's wrong with those people?"

You may have even exchanged greetings with one of them. Usually they're overly upbeat and fast in calling out a cheery "Good morning" in between quick intakes of breath as they run on, giving a little wave. They most likely add something along the lines of "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" And before you've had the chance to even grunt a reply, or purposely trip them, they've disappeared down the street and around the corner, radiating good health and good fortune. Trust me, I know how you feel. I don't trust "those people". I've often believed they exist for the sole purpose of making me feel fat. I like to curse at them while cradling a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies and a few bags of chips.

I was very comfortable with my dislike of "those people". Which is exactly what makes it so hard to admit that I have somehow evolved into one. It started innocently. I signed up for a running class back in the spring, to do something healthy for myself. It was supposed to be easy and temporary. I certainly never expected it to last very long, especially since it would be going up against my great love of lying on the couch and doing absolutely nothing.

But the class led to a 3-mile race back in May and that race led to a gradual ability to run for 2 miles straight. Soon, 2 miles became 3 miles became 4 miles and soon will become 5 miles. Four times a week you will find this middle aged man on the side of the road, no matter what the weather, running. And hard as it is to admit, I find myself enjoying it. I have moments when I even allow myself to think that maybe "those people" have been on to something all along.

Difficult as it is, I've had to stop sneering and muttering at them.You can't exactly make snide comments about a group of people once you've realized that you're one of them. But luckily, a few days ago, a friend of mine came along and innocently mentioned his love of camping. "It's great," he said. "Sleeping under the stars and the quiet of the woods."

Campers, sheesh. Sleeping bags, tents, campfires and wildlife. Something's definitely wrong with those people.