I’ve been living a lie, my faithful “Soggy” readers.
As I’ve chronicled in my past articles, I, for lack of better words, jog. Well, at least I used to.
Then I completed my first half marathon in 2014, a race for which I trained heavily. I ran, on average, three miles a day during crunch time. My platonic pal Callie and I slogged around whenever and where ever we could.
After crossing the downtown finish line, being in the fittest shape of my life, I decided it was OK for me to slightly slow my jogging regime. And by slowing I meant I stopped.
A couple of health issues popped up that summer, too, and I was in no hurry to lace up my tennis shoes.
So I sat and slept in a comatose state until the New Year. It wasn’t a resolution that got the shoes back on my size-12 feet; rather, it was propaganda mail from Mark Knutson and the Fargo Marathon.
“How far will you go?” my newly received fridge magnet asked, in the most mocking, inanimate of ways.
I trained, albeit less intensively, for my second half marathon. The spark like I had for my first race was gone, but, with the help of some friends, we persevered.
And I’ve been in hibernation since, trying to wake myself back up to the love I had for this ancient activity.
Have I lost that loving feeling, Righteous Brothers? Am I no longer ready to run, Dixie Chicks? Often, it feels like it.
This is where “Soggy Jogging,” if my blueprints go to plan, saves the day. If I continue to write about my jogging stories, sooner or later, I will run out of past memories and will need to drum up new content.
My running running column in The Spectrum will force me to start running again. It hasn’t happened yet. But the mounting shame and hatred of deceiving my readers will get me going again.