How did I do this when I could barely stagger six blocks down my street last week? I was going about the jogging thing all wrong, and I blame my neighborhood. My entire neighborhood. They all suck.

You know how the latest studies show that the average American is now heavier than an oil tanker carrying John Goodman and 400 Steinway Model S baby grand pianos? Well, none of those average Americans live in my neighborhood. My neighbors are all impossibly fit, athletic, good-looking people you just want to mow over with a tractor. And they all jog. Which is why I chose jogging as my exercise – if jogging made them that fit and healthy, then maybe it would help me, and if I got really lucky, someone would want to run me over with a tractor too. This is America. One can dream.

Before I actually laced up my sneakers and gave it a shot, I spent weekends sitting on a bench by the duck pond with my bag of Cheetos, watching my neighbors run. They didn’t just jog. They bounded like gazelles, gracefully sailing through lap after lap of the trail. They would run with their friends, able to carry on detailed and animated conversations without gasping for breath. They didn’t even sweat – they glowed. I’m sure that when they finished, the heavens parted and the Voice of God boomed down that these were His children in which He was well pleased, but I never got to witness that part because the ducks would see my bag of Cheetos and launch an attack. Did you know that ducks can hiss and growl? They can. And when they do, I recommend you hurl the entire bag at them and run for your life.

So when I hit the trail that first evening after work, I took a deep breath, summoned up my strength, and began to bound. After three blocks, I looked like a gazelle that had been hit with a tranquilizer dart while suffering an asthma attack. After six blocks, the hunters had won. I was finished. And the Voice of God was noticeably absent. I think I actually stunned Him into silence.

I felt like a failure, and I did not appreciate the nervous and concerned looks I was getting from the other runners. One very sweet, well-meaning guy on his twenty-millionth lap asked me if I was OK, and I just wanted to shower him with Cheetos and shove him into the duck pond.

I decided to get away from the Chariots of Fire crowd and practice my running alone until I was good enough to run with them. So I set my alarm early, and the next morning at 5:30am, I was on that trail.

I almost went straight home when I saw two or three other people running the trail. But I noticed something. They weren’t bounding and glowing. They were shuffling along, just keeping one foot in front of the other. They were breathing hard but not wheezing, and they kept moving. They offered a friendly wave as they passed but didn’t want to expend a molecule of energy trying to say good morning when they needed every bit of it just to finish their run.

So instead of bounding, I began to shuffle. I found a gait that closely resembled what you see little old ladies doing on the beach when they’ve had hip surgery but still want to keep in shape and besides little Fluffy still needs her walkies. But it was a gait. And I was jogging. And jogging. And jogging. On that very first morning run with the other shufflers, I ran a mile.

The heavens didn’t part -- it was still dark out, and God was probably still sleeping. But I didn’t care. I had run a mile without stopping. I was more of a penguin than a gazelle, but I was a jogging penguin. And me and my fellow penguins rule the trail at 5:30 in the morning. I am well pleased.

Ramey Marx
April 9, 2006