Finding my running legs

My earliest memory of competitive athletics includes my mother sitting in the grass beside a bubbling blacktop track, kneading her calves and picking at enormous blisters on her feet. She'd done a walk-a-thon, raising money for a cause that I think included Jesus. She completed nearly 20 miles. And then she was in pain for Jesus.

And now I will be in pain for a friend. I'm planning to run a 5K this November with a friend in New York's Central Park. I'm not really a runner. I have a body that has stayed pretty much one hulking shape since age 16 that can only be toned, not reduced. And this arse is pretty heavy to carry around, particularly when you're trying to haul your it over a finish line. 

But I shouldn't be complaining. It's kind of an easy run compared to the torture my boyfriend has signed up for the following day - the New York City Marathon. (Donate here.) Yeah. He's been training for months and I've been running with him on his "recovery" days. Yeah. I'm that lazy.

And I've come pretty far, actually. I began running only when urged. I'd crunched my knee on a particularly crowded ski slope in Pennsylvania and thought I'd never walk again, much less run. But here I am. I'm still a 10-minute mile, but it's not so pathetic anymore. I can run a 5K.

Really, though, my heart is in the pool. I've always secretly wanted to swim the English Channel a la "Dangerous When Wet":

But maybe I should leave that to Esther Williams...I'll just buy swimsuits that look like hers. And run 5Ks.