Running on empty, running blind

Bad things happen when I violate the few principles that form my personal constitution. A prime example of this is when I broke one of the most fundamental of these laws and decided to eat fish in the dining hall. I spent the rest of the night barfing into my wire mesh, Boston University-approved trashcan, praying that my roommate would not walk in and witness the messy aftermath of my dinner misadventure.

So, I should have known better when I decided it might be in my best interest to start running. My running experiences have been vast — I played on sports teams in high school for one year before I decided I had had enough (I still have nightmares about Coach Naughton, my diesel women’s lacrosse coach who moonlighted as an ocean lifeguard and a police officer, screaming threats of how much more running she would make us do if we didn’t run faster). While the track coaches were less frightening, I was absolutely pathetic so I’d rather not talk about that. Once those days of pain and embarrassment ended, I vowed I would never run again unless I was being chased by a knife-wielding man or the girl from whom I borrowed $20 four years ago.

However, this resolve is now on the endangered list after I became friends with some running fanatics. Let me tell you a little something about this breed of people: they exist in an alternate universe where running is fun and usually not at all painful (but if it’s painful, it’s still fun). Don’t ask me to explain. I don’t get it either. Everyone who runs thinks everyone should smile and join in the masochism.

The Free Press’ Friday columnist Denise Spellman is my running idol. She ran a half marathon last semester for fun! Her talk of how excellent running is for the mind and body inspired me to lace up my Sauconys and tiptoe onto a treadmill.

What a mess? With Incubus blaring through my headphones, I was introduced to the world of treadmills at a local “mom and pop” gym my friends at home frequent. After five minutes, I observed what I thought to be a young man blatantly staring at my posterior. At that point, I was feeling pretty good about myself! Yeah, he was definitely scopin’ out my ass!

Suddenly, the owner of the small gym tapped me on the shoulder. “Miss, did you know that your treadmill has been making a loud screeching noise for the past 15 minutes? It’s bothering everyone, and we’re not sure why it’s happening.”

A friend once told me he only runs where people can’t witness the spectacle that is his running. Now I know why. He lovingly passed his running insecurities on to me so that I can focus on how embarrassing I look pretending to be a runner while I’m running, instead of how much it hurts.

Eventually, I got better at treadmill running, but that wasn’t good enough. My run-for-fun amigos wanted me to hit the road.

I thought I was in pretty good shape until I tried to run a mile on the road. Logic would tell you that a mile is a mile, no matter where you run it, but my body tells a different story. Not only was I a huffing and puffing bastard out on the open road, but the next day I was waddling like a duck because my legs and back were so sore.

Last week I debuted my road-running here at BU. On the patheticness scale, it registered somewhere in between my TV reception at Myles and Donny Osmond’s new album of show tunes. I was hesitant about whether or not I should run on campus because I didn’t want to look like the spaz I am. You can get weird looks for doing anything here. One afternoon one of my pals innocently bought whipped cream at the Marketplace Cafe and endured snickers and strange looks upon exiting the store with the said ice cream topping.

So, if you see me on Bay State Road, Comm. Ave. or on the Esplanade, try to feel some sympathy and avert your eyes.

Don’t fret, not all of the articles of my Quinne constitution have been repealed; dining hall baked scrod did not make the cut.