Last Friday, I decided to walk to the store. Balmy weather, high spirits, I got plenty o’ nothin’ and nothin’s plenty for me. Life seemed so ginger peachy, I broke into a cheerful run.
Before I’d covered even two blocks, a police car drove past, made a U-turn, and pulled up next to me.
“Is everything alright?” he asked.
“Yes!” I answered, trying to look like an honest, upright citizen.
“Yeah, just running.” In jeans and a dress shirt, suspiciously enough.
He drove away.
Now, being undeniably out of shape, I can’t run fast or far. But having told a law enforcement officer that I was out for a run, I felt morally obligated to keep running. Step after step, yard after yard, I huffed along. Jog jog jog, run run. Three or four police cars drove by—- or was it that same officer, checking on my story?
Three days later, my calves were still sore. Having pined for calf muscle lo these many years, this soreness inspired me to slap on some “sportswear” and go for a short run today. Having come this far, it was no trouble to do a few squats and lunges while making dinner— putting me back on the unfamiliar road to fitness.
Thanks, officer. Or, thanks, lifelong fear of being mistaken for a criminal. Whatever gets the ball rolling, right?