Saint Ralph

I'm so impressionable.


No, seriously, I really am. Especially when it comes to movies. No, let me take that back, especially when it comes to sports movies. Give me a good training montage with soaring violins, or electric guitars, and my little soul grows three sizes and I become one with Rocky, or Rudy, or Ralph. That's right, Ralph. As in, I just watched this movie tonight, and not only did I laugh constantly, but I also became fully convinced that even I could win the Boston Marathon.


Secretly, I've always wanted to be a runner. Unfortunately right now with my IT Band, I'm doing good to be a walker, and it's incredibly frustrating. Like frustrating to the point of wanting to kick something, but then I remember that it's actually my IT Band that keeps me from being able to kick things. This is a circular form of madness that can lead me to near "Hulk Smash!" levels of anger. Luckily I find a different means of catharsis before my freckles fade to jade. Hey, that rhymed!


Ok, so if it's just the knee problem, I still find that as a pretty lame excuse for not running. Excuse number two is my complete and utter lack of endurance. For some reason when my legs begin to move slightly faster than a snail's pace, my lungs decide that the apocalypse is near and I go into full fledged hyperventilating melt down. This has happened my entire life. I seriously do not understand how runners control their breathing! Is there a method to this? Is there some way of training for it? Can Google give me the answer? Probably. I should look that up some time.


Excuse number three for not being a runner has to do with my pride. I'm an eat the whole elephant in one bite kinda gal, so I don't do so well with the baby step method to life. I'll jump straight into the deep end before dipping a toe in the water, and I've been known to do it fully clothed (making sure that I've atleast removed my cell phone from my pants), thankyouverymuch. Road signs in Ireland mean nothing to me, they are mere suggestions when driving on ice. Need someone to remodel a bathroom? Hand me a sledge hammer and a remote control, and HGTV and I will get the job done. So, when I want to "go for a run", and by the fourth house on my street I'm completely gassed out and sucking wind, I struggle a little bit. Mind you, I can walk with ease, but picking up that pace and learning to run? And you may as well get the oxygen tank and defibrillator ready, it's gonna get bad.


And I hate that about me.


I actually dream about running sometimes. Heck, in a lot of my dreams I can run huge distances. Some people dream of flying, I dream of running. And when I run, I feel the same exhilaration of the wind in my hair, and the freedom to go where I choose. One of these days I'll get there. One of these days I'll lace up my tennis shoes, head out the door, and enjoy the rhythm of my own feet. One of these days I'll swallow my pride and start with my baby steps, and those steps may even lead to a marathon.


Only, seriously? That's a race named after someone who died doing it. How about I shoot for a nice 42.195 kilometers instead? And possibly in Chicago instead of Boston. Fewer hills and more pizza there.