In the past three months, I’ve become a runner. It’s an odd transformation, particularly because I’ve run before without becoming a runner. I was a member of my school’s cross country team during my senior year of high school, but I was a basketball player trying to get in shape after a summer spent working at Burger King. I was not a runner. I took aclass a couple of years ago and ran over 150 miles in a semester, including two races, but I was a recently married 30 year old woman trying to share my marathon-running husband’s interest. I was not a runner.
This fall, when I moved, a neighbor asked me if I was a runner; she was in need of a running partner. I had just finished a 5k a few weeks before, but I hesitated. I was a person who ran sometimes, but I was not a runner. Now, after three months of getting up before the sun to run two miles in sometimes freezing weather, I finally feel like a runner. I ask my marathon-running husband if he’d like to run with me in the evenings. He shakes his head, “I don’t like running when it’s so cold outside.” . . . and he calls himself a Canadian.