Up until a year ago, I did not consider myself a runner. In fact, I would go so far as to categorize myself as the anti-runner.
“Want to go for a jog on the beach this weekend?” well-meaning friends would ask.
“Ha! Over my dead body,” came my scathing reply. Then I would strap on my highest stilettos and jaunt on over to the mall.
My aversion to running was rather ironic, considering I played soccer competitively for ten years (I reconcile the oxymoronic nature of this to the fact that I played defense and rarely left the goal box). Plus, since then I have grown a tad lazier, filled my life with work and stuck to yoga and the elliptical machine, telling myself that the low impact was better for my joints. My lackadaisical anti-running attitude persisted until one fateful day when along came Rambo.
Rambo was a fictional Boston Terrier my boyfriend and I created in our imaginations and referred to as if he already existed. After imagining him cuddling and playing with us for nearly two years, we took the plunge and bought ourselves an adorable three-month-old Boston Terrier, and named him (what else?) Rambo.
After one peaceful month of cuddling and sleeping, my sugary sweet, blissfully calm little puppy turned into a holy teething terror. He leaped on and off the furniture, he destroyed his toys, he stole my socks and he hid under the bed. People had warned me that Boston Terriers had boundless energy, but it took actual ownership for their warnings to sink in. Desperate to burn some of his energy, I reluctantly dragged myself to the nearby running store, stifled my anti-running sentiments and bought a brand new pair of blue and white Saucony running shoes. Feeling smug and looking good in my new kicks, I took to the streets.
Much to my chagrin, I had to slow to a walk after two blocks. Huffing and puffing I struggled to catch my breath as Rambo bounced and frolicked by my side, begging to run again. And though it was a painful process at first, over the course of two months I built up my stamina and strength to run three miles without stopping. My furry little ball of energy somehow managed to turn this anti-runner into a true run-a-holic, eager to get home from work and lace up my super comfy Sauconys to pound the pavement. For this monumental accomplishment, he can have all the dog treats in the world.