The Mile

“I will run the whole mile, and all the magic will be in me and I will run the WHOLE MILE!!!” - age 9

Have I ever mentioned I was a fat kid?

Honestly, I’m a fat adult too. There was a four year period where I was svelte, honestly and truly in fantastic shape. I weighed about 130 pounds, ate nothing but vegetables and worked out religiously. This was age 18-21 and I have never looked better. I have since defaulted to my old ways and can’t seem to get a grip on my health. Running and working out was a lot easier before 50 hours/week jobs, mortgages, dogs, husbands, book clubs, and college. I hope to someday find the strength I mustered right out of high school. I cannot wait to relish in the sweat of a good work-out. Until then, give me the remote and back to back episodes of Dexter (the closest I get to heart-pumping action).

This diary entry was written the night before the dreaded elementary school MILE. For those of you unaware, (weird home-schooled kid) all students had to run the mile once a year. The lack of training leading up to the mile was completely absurd. All year long we’d stand around, waiting for our chance to kick the kick-ball or take our one swing at the softball. At the end of the year they would say, “Alright good! You’ve kicked a ball around 4 times, now go run a MILE.” I suppose most children can easily run a mile, chock full of sugary sodas and that vibrant childhood energy. I was not one of these kids. I was a sloth. I sat at school all day and hid from my chance in kick-ball. When I was home I would read until well after bed-time, or write plays and force my sister to act in them. I would use Dads’ recliner for the “director’s chair” and eat bugles off my fingertips, screaming “HALEY! FACE FORWARD, YOU’RE THE WORST ACTOR EVER! DO IT AGAIN!”

This was my child-hood; eating, reading, writing and NOT running a mile. Even when we got a trampoline- I spent most of my time laying on it instead of jumping. There’s nothing like baking on a trampoline in the sun of summer while reading a mystery novel. It’s heaven. My sister and her friends would come over to bounce and create dance routines, and I would go inside annoyed. Haley also took every type of dance class possible and had an array of physical, extra-curricular activities. The closest thing I got was horse-camp, which consisted of sitting on a horse until lunch.

I hated the mile. There was absolutely nothing good in it for me. I was short, fat and not the charming person I am today. I would run around with everyone for the first ten seconds and then have to fall back. My lungs would hurt, my knees would ache and I was always in last place. I would curse under my breath and pray that everyone in front of me would trip over a land-mine. It was the ultimate humiliation.

The worst part was the gym teacher’s torture of the slow kids. As other (faster, less fat) children finished the race, he would line them up against the building to scream taunts; “RUN COURTNEY! YOUUUUU CAN DO IT! PRETEND I HAVE A CANDY BAR!”


The truly embarrassing memory of this entry was my “prep work” for the mile. After a year of sedentary living, I would start stretching the NIGHT before the big to do. I’d stretch, pour myself a glass of water and somehow think this would help me. I would take little sips in-between stretches and look in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk “Yea, you can do this! You are going to RUN THE ENTIRE THING!” I would throw a couple of flailing punches to give myself that “tough girl edge”.

I’m sure I was putting on this whole charade when I wrote this. I can tell it was dark, because my hand-writing is atrocious. I was also calling on MAGIC this time. I’m guessing the previous year’s “stretching/ glass of water” combo hadn’t paid off, so I was looking for something more serious to bring me to the finish line. I was definitely on the right track, because nothing short of magic would have gotten me to run that entire thing.

The next day I would be sore (from the one day of stretching) and start with a big, healthy bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. Afterwards, I would drag myself to the bus stop with a couple of pop-tarts in my pocket (for extra energy) and try to psych myself up. Unfortunately, it would be the same every year; a lot of build up with terrible results. There was the huffing and the wheezing and the immediate shaky-legged walk. I would walk across the finish line in last place, and sometimes vomit. I rarely cried though and would even try to laugh at myself a little. Whatever magical energy that enveloped me the night before would be long gone. I knew I would never be any good at running, or hand-eye coordination, or eating carrots. Even then my body was too round, breasts already spilling out of a B cup and stretch marks glowing on my thighs. There would be no gold medals in my future, not in athletics anyways. I accepted defeat as graciously as a nine year old can; with thrown up pop-tarts in my hair and a half-cocked smile.

I want to believe this intense humiliation helped me become a better person or gave me the ambition to conquer my fears, but it just had the opposite effect. Now I hate running and everything that goes with it. No need to go through all the motions of gulping for air and throwing up at the finish line just to achieve mediocre results. No way. Heck, even when my husband ran his first half-marathon, I supported him by sleeping in the car and rolling out just as he crossed the finish line. The runners were wind-blown and covered in sweat, but I still managed to look worse with my uncombed hair and seatbelt-face imprint. While we were waiting for the results, I stole some of the participant’s doughnuts and leaned back in a folding chair. My husband was off talking “runner’s world” with another participant when a lithe, older gentleman came over. He glanced at my matted hair and mouthful of doughnut and skeptically asked, “I didn’t even see you out there, it was a toughie… how do you think you did?” I swallowed my doughnut, took a theatrically fatigued slug of water and said, “It was a good day for me…Pretty sure I finished first.”