2015 was the 10-year anniversary of when I first started running. Twelve years-old when I strapped on my Asics and started running before Carver Middle School's first bell. Fortunately my parents forced me to go to bed at 10 p.m. on weekdays, so I didn't mind waking up 6 a.m. to run a mile or two. If I didn't run in the mornings, I would hop on over to my best friend's house about 1.5 miles over in the neighboring hood. Don't get me wrong, I operated a number of adolescent vehicles. Mongooses, Razor electric scooters, Schwinns, the occasional Heelys.
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| First race in my life when I was 13, being supported by my family. I cried like a Denzel Washington. |
But hitting that stride, 1-step, 2-step. Took me maybe five minutes to get to my friend's show on a bike, 20 minutes to jog. One may be asking why I took the time out of my 7th grade life to take that slow, exhausting trip. All of the PBS kid's showtime I was missing, all of the homework that could be completed, all of the girls to daydream about. What amazing origin story has got me running consistently with competitive times at the age of 22?
My ten year affliction with running was an outcome from one of my vertically-challenged peers calling me fat. One kid. Who's name I can not recall at the moment. "Hey, you're a fat-a**." I will never forget that feeling because it was pooped-out processed hopelessness. Gullible and emotional as I was, that one phrase in particular pierced me. It's that one thing that got me trippin'. Such an arbitrary reason to start one of the longest and most structured hobbies in Jonny's modern life.
Now, this blog is for me to express underlying vibes and such from this process that I have developed, as well as explaining to people how I view exercise in general as a chronic wienie, understanding body image, my battles with semi-depression, my obsession with geography, and being a fitness minimalist
Don't show my mom.
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