The long, whining road of a runner

A few years ago, I was walking around Mill Creek Park on a beautiful June day, taking in the sunshine, the warm weather, the scenery and the old man who decided he was too good to bring a bag to pick up his dog's "you know what", even though there are signs posted everywhere reminding him that you have to pick it up because it's THE LAW and EVERYONE ELSE seems to be thoughtful enough to pick it up, and maybe I should grab one of those BIG BRANCHES and BEAT SOME SENSE INTO HIM.
(Sorry. Got a little off track.)
Anyway, I heard a small voice in my head saying, "Joe, you have pretty good knees. Your back doesn't hurt. You almost never wake up early in the morning complaining about how sore you are.
"You should start running."
This, of course, is the voice of Satan.
Let me start by saying that I never ran in high school. As a teenager, my idea of cardiovascular training was to grab a big hunk of one of my friends' triceps and twist (this is called a "snake bite"), then run away before my friends retaliated by ripping out my leg hair (this is called "ripping out my leg hair.").
But there comes a time in every man's life when he must shake off the friend-inflicted bruises of adolescence and seize the running shoes of stupidity in order to mature into the rambling metaphor of adulthood.
The beginning
So I started running.
A mile or two at first. Then three miles. Then five. Then, when I wasn't satisfied with my current level of fitness (i.e. I needed a column for the next day), I went on a seven-mile run with the Youngstown Road Runners.
And, despite my fears about waking up with sore knees and a sore back, I woke up the next morning with sore knees, a sore back and, for good measure, sore ears, sore eyelashes and sore socks.
And a column, which mentioned my hallucinogenic vision involving a green unicorn. (Note to readers: This is a common side effect of running more than five miles. Do not be alarmed. Do not attempt to write about said visions. The newspaper job market is bad enough.)
I didn't learn my lesson. I kept running. I even ran on a treadmill in the winter, which is about as much fun as walking through downtown Youngstown after 5 p.m. (Or before 5 p.m.)
Still, I told myself, I wasn't a runner. Runners are strange people who buy Steve Prefontaine posters, wear $100 shoes and go outside in February for more than just warming up their cars.
I, on the other hand, just wear $100 shoes.
Acceptance
Then, a few weeks ago, something terrible happened. It got warm. And a few of my friends were standing around talking about what we wanted to do that day. And, before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out, "I want to go running."
"Running?" my friend asked. "Just running?"
"Yeah, I've been dying to run outside since October," I said. "It's a nice day. Want to join me?"
"Are you crazy?" he said. "I'm not going running. Let's go rollerblading, or rock climbing or play catch. Running is stupid. You get tired and you go in a straight line and get all sweaty. What's fun about that?"
"You wouldn't understand," I said. "You're not a runner. I am."
I was stunned. I couldn't believe what I just said. A runner? Me? No, no, no. I'm not a runner. I'm just staying in shape for when the NFL calls. Or major league baseball. Or the NBA. Sure I'm only 5-10. So what? Teams are always looking for point guards, right?
But I knew I was just kidding myself. I'm a runner. Sure, it's not glamorous, but at least I won't die from obesity, right?
Right. Instead, I'll die of a fatigue-induced heart attack.
So if you see a guy running through Mill Creek Park this summer wearing expensive shoes and a shirt sleeve on his head (don't ask), make sure to give him a wave.
And if you're with your dog, do us all a favor: Bring a bag.
XJoe Scalzo is a sportswriter for The Vindicator. Write him at scalzo@vindy.com.