I truly despise running

I have always hated running. But part of me always wondered how fast I could run if my life was in danger. You know, being chased by a bear through the woods, could I make it to my car before being eaten? I don't know that answer. But I learned in high school that, when called upon, anybody can run like the wind.

That's me getting my letter in theater, I think. Notice the chub?

With a couple of months left in our senior year, I decided it would be a great idea to mess with our student teacher in Russian class. She was dating Dave Offord's older brother — or someone's older brother, I really don't remember — and it was her last day of school. Maybe it was somebody's sister. Move along people.

It was decided that the student-teacher needed her car done up right. In this context, "right" meant an application of honey, followed by an application of popcorn. Harmless fun.

The thing is, Stillwater High School has parking lot attendants. Two of them, back in the day. The only name I remember is Jim. Odd, that. (Edit: Was the other one Arne?) With Beau Bureau on the lookout, I and another accomplice were making good progress on the car — a little red Ford Fiesta, perfect for teachers of all ages. We were almost done with the popcorn when the parking lot guys pulled up on us.

My accomplice took off through the school. I took off through an open field next to the school, trying to make it to the pine tree farm a half mile off. I covered the ground in about 2 minutes. Everything hurt. An arts class was outside — the weather was unusually beautiful, for April in Minnesota. Mike Sederstrom, a fellow senior who was in the art class, said it looked like there was a trail of fire behind me as I ran.

Why was I moving so fast? Because Jim was chasing me in his red pickup truck across the field. I have never run that fast ever again. And I was not a runner. I made it into the pine trees. Jim hopped out of the truck about 50 yards behind me and yelled my name.

Well, this is pretty pointless, if they know it's me. The victim of my own frequent departures from the high school, I returned back to Jim's truck. I went to the principal's office. "I don't understand why you'd do this. It goes on your permanent record," he told me. Yeah, I'm a senior with a very nice ACT score. I don't think a little honey is going to frighten away public universities.

My punishment: I had to clean the student teacher's car.
The reward: Everybody thought I was a bit of a badass. And I discovered my physical limitations.

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Notice my first-birthday cake?

I did seven consecutive pull-ups at the gym today. Then I did six more. Then I did 10 weight-assisted. This is not news for 99.99 percent of the nation. But it means something to me. I'm on my way up to my goal: Three sets of 10 pull-ups.

Here's why this matters: Six months ago, I had never done a single pull-up. Ever. It would be easy to look at me and think I'm an athlete. I'm fairly slim, by 33-year-old Midwestern standards. But I wasn't born that way. Far from it. Entering 10th grade, I weighed 235 pounds. I was 5-foot-2. There are still stretch marks on both sides of my belly, if anybody needs verification of this fact. I'll trust you don't.

Six months ago, I started working on the weight-assisted pull-up machine at the gym. It was incremental growth. Nothing exciting. Get a little less help every few weeks. Maybe mix in a solo pull-up to prove it can be done. Incremental steps.

It doesn't just happen. Today, I weighed about 18 pounds more than I did on my wedding day. That's still about 60 pounds off my all-time worst. Conversely, my running is near all-time bests. I can run three miles in 24 minutes. I am faster than ever — well, maybe not faster than when I outran that pickup truck.

Oddly, that's TW's 5K shirt.

It's time to lose the weight and keep the running at a high level. I work well with goals. I'm going to run a half marathon every month, from June to October (and maybe November). And then I am done with running forever. I don't particularly enjoy it. It keeps me in great shape. But my body won't hold up from the strain of running forever. Knees are not meant to go 50 miles a week for life. In late fall, I'll take up yoga or pilates or water polo. Until then, there are roads to run and trails to follow.

And if anybody wants to chase me in a truck, I'm sure my times will keep improving.