Exercise: an essay

It all started with the mile run.

Fourth grade we had our first mile run in gym class. We'd heard about it from the older kids, and we dreaded the day we'd have to "run the mile." I guess in American Education standards in the 1980s, we had to run it twice a year, but our gym teacher, Mr. Mason, would do it for a good two or three weeks in the fall and again in the spring.

It's not too hard to understand why I didn't like gym class. I was heavier than other fourth-graders, which opened me up to teasing. Looking back, I wasn't any bigger than them, just more awkward. I wasn't cool or anything even close to it. Not only was I heavier, but I had a big mouth, too. Tease a shy kid, it's over in 10 seconds. Tease a big mouth, it's just more fun.

We ran the mile in the neighborhood next to the school, something I bet now would be just unheard of. We also ran the mile in the large field used for recess. Every time around, we'd get a time. I was always last. People started to lap me. I rarely finished.

I remember one time, sick of the teasing and the running, I stopped at two laps when we were supposed to run three. I told Mr. Mason I had run the mile. He looked at me and cocked his head, but wrote my name down anyway. He put everyone's time up on the wall next to the gym. Mine was not there. He knew.

The next year, I switched schools, but still had to run the mile. Luckily the gym teacher at that school, Mrs. Yingst, only made us run it the twice-a-year bare minimum. I think I ran it once, but I'm not sure.

The spring of 1990, fifth grade, I hurt my knee while playing softball. I was told I had Osgood-Schlatter's disease. Great! A disease! I was way more excited than I should have been. I had a doctor's note out of running, or at least running the mile. It was like Christmas came early.

The thing about Osgood-Schlatter's disease is that you grow out of it. What it is, essentially, is the growth plate on the bone under your knee pushes your knee out. But, once you don't have a growth plate anymore, you don't have it anymore. I relied on the general apathy of the American school system. No one bothered to check up on me. I had reached and passed puberty by the time I was 14, but still that doctor's note stood.

Junior year of high school, I ran the mile. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I had been almost enjoying gym class, and wanted to give it a shot. I finished. It was a victorious day. Even my gym teacher was proud of me. I ran it in 12:14. Not a great time by any standards, but you know what? Some other girls didn't finish. I finished.

I've had knee injuries since, but I've always like exercising. Every time I'm on that treadmill and finish, I first look at the calories burned, but then look at the distance. I divide out the time to see how I've done.

I'm still not at that non-impressive 12:14 a mile, but I'm getting closer. I run at an incline, I run for half-an-hour at a time. And lately, my base speed has been increasing more and more each day. I can easily keep pace at a 4.0. Again, not impressive for anyone else but myself. After all, running at 4.0 mph is a 25 minute mile. But I'm doing it. I'm progressing. I'm finishing.

I'll never be a marathon runner or someone who runs as a hobby. I often say the only time I'll run is if I'm being chased. But the love of exercising, the love of myself, will always be there; no matter what my mile time is.