That title is a false one, or at least, it is a false one as a description of my life. I do run, sometimes as much as once a week, but I really don't think that makes me a runner - which is really sort of a double standard in my life as even when I don't write I boldly call myself a writer. Some things are more deeply wrapped around every blood cell. Some things are coded even on places that aren't supposed to carry genetic information, like the narrowed tip of the golden, almost invisible hair on my arms, or the lub-dup pump regulating my panic as I run to class, and of course, on all my pretty and busy leukocytes. In all these places, I'm a writer.
But a runner? Well, I pretend. And I am pretending to be one this Saturday for the Bridge Run here in the plucky and ever-expanding town of Grand Rapids. The problem is that I haven't run for ... well, I cannot remember the last time I ran. I think it was a week and a half ago. This makes me very anxious about Saturday's run.
The truth is running is brutal.
The truth is running is salvation.
The truth is my goal is to run my first 5k is under 30 minutes and with such little discipline, I will likely barf trying to achieve that very modest goal.
So here's to running and writing and the discipline and physical suffering involved in both pursuits. I have been lax in both activities and at the heart of everything is the aching fear that I am wasting this life, I am wasting this youth, I am wasting this mind. I am never busy enough to make the gift of it worthwhile. So I'll run. And I'll write. Sometimes as much as once a week.