Separating the men from the boys. I think I might be a boy.

Four weeks ago I started formal training for the Chicago Marathon, which will be held in October later this year. For those of you who know me, I don't particularly enjoy running, unless it has a purpose. Evading a basketball defender to get to the hoop, tracking down a tennis ball for a return, and sprinting to accept a soccer pass all qualify in my book. Better yet, running to save my life from a crazed, armed mugger is the ultimate in running reasons. Jogging in a loop, voluntarily and with no purpose, doesn't quite make sense to me.

However, in January I sprained my ankle severely playing hoops, had to go to rehab, and was told to lay off any activity requiring side to side motion for a while. So I took up running to stay in shape. Since I'm a glutton for punishment, and I know how quickly I will lose in interest in an activity, I decided that I'd also set a goal of completing the Chicago marathon to keep myself motivated. So, as a novice runner who had never thought twice about what sort of shoes to wear before heading out for a jog, I decided to join a formal training program.

CARA - the Chicago Area Runners Association - has fit the bill nicely. CARA's training program lays out the mileage you are to run each week, with short and long runs mixed in. The "long runs" are group events (for motivation) that are held on Saturdays at 6am, close to where I live. Although the timing is brutal, I find it convenient to roll out of bed, change a poopy diaper, get milk spit-up on my shirt, put a fussy baby to sleep, and head out for a jog.

The problem is that these jogs have been getting longer and longer. This weekend we had to run 9 miles as part of our program, something which had me quite apprehensive. One reason was a lack of faith in my running ability - last week I was running my assigned mileage when I heard a loud "excuse me!" behind me. As per running ettiquette, I moved to the side to let this obviously gifted Olympian runner pass me by. Except that this professional runner was a woman pushing a jogging stroller with two kids tucked comfortably inside. And she was still outpacing me.

The other reason for my apprehension was the lack of the "runner's high" in my runs. I was discussing this with my friend Marvis the other day. We talked about how people fondly reminesced about the euphoric feelings that suffused their bodies as they ran, where their minds detached from the bodies and everything just went to autopilot. This state of being was where the meaning of life became clear. Not so for me.

Running those 9 miles yesterday, I felt *every* footstrike, gasped for breath the entire way, and had my body cussing me out with gusto. Either runners are lying through their miserable teeth when they talk about a runner's high - sort of like a survivor bias where painful memories of past experiences are painted in a good light to justify their participation - or these runners truly are high, from the weed they must be smoking before the run. I, unfortunately, don't know where to get any pot, nor do I want to set a bad example for my kid. Which meant that once the run was over, I limped back home, dreading next week's 11 miler and thinking that this was going to be one loooong training program.

I hate running.