Got the runs. No, not that kind.

If your mind is strong enough or weak enough, you can talk yourself into believing the most asinine shit.

My last serious athletic endeavor, other than the gymnastics required to help conceive our son, was some 13 years ago, and the last time I was really and truly in shape was probably 15 years ago. Then, I was a sophomore in high school, just coming off a season in which I was Most Valuable Runner for my high school’s cross-country team. That make-or-break winter – the winter that would determine whether I would continue my improvement and carry out my vow to my high school principal that he’d soon see my name on the all-conference team – I got my driver’s license and just stopped running.

By the time track season rolled around that spring, a season in which there were high expectations on me to carry our small distance-running corps, I was a lost cause. All of the previous two years’ work, in which I got my 5K time down from the 26s to the 18s, was for naught. The disappointment was crushing - crushing enough that I didn’t go out for cross-country or track my last two years of high school. Even at my small school, I didn’t feel like I belonged on either team.

Running was no longer an option as a result; I played baseball my last two years of high school, and that was the last time I had done anything even remotely resembling “exercise” on a regular basis.

Fast-forward to today.

You know about my recent cardiac scare, and the relief that ensued when I found out that I was in better shape than I feared. I’ve smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank a lot of beer, ate a lot of White Castle and watched a lot of TV the last 15 years. To learn that there were no arterial blockages or cardiac anomalies in spite of my sedentary lifestyle was like a last-minute death row reprieve.

And it’s not just a selfish concern about my health, either. It’s about my son growing up with a father, and my wife having someone around to keep her honest the next 50 years. It’s about not breaking my family’s heart by going to an early grave thanks to dumb lifestyle choices. It’s about sticking around to watch my kid beat up the Captain’s kid.

(Editor’s note – Before starting the next paragraph, Mr. Tamble was hit by a bus and, as he gimped to safety, was tragically obliterated by a wayward meteor. No other injuries were reported.)

Oh, I jest. Just wanted to illustrate what a crapshoot life can be, and how health zealots can often miss the big picture – that it doesn’t matter how clean you live your life, how much healthy food and drink you put into your system, how few cigarettes you smoke – if your number comes up, it comes up. I’m not saying that there are not risk factors that may or may not weigh into the final day of your life – I’m just saying that living right and staying off the crack doesn’t guarantee you’ll live to be the old person in one of those “five generations” pictures.

Anyway, my “new lease on life,” as it were, compelled me to purchase a cheap pair of running shoes that weekend.

Remember what I said in the opening paragraph about having a strong enough or weak enough mind can make you susceptible to talking yourself into the stupidest shit?

Before hitting the pavement for the first time in over a decade, I harbored no illusions about getting back to an 18-minute 5K – those days went out the window with my driver’s license vision test. I did, however, have a vision of running my way to good health, and it was that impetus that propelled one foot in front of the other in a faster-than-walking fashion on my country road last Sunday. “I’m going to run out to the end of my road and then turn around and run back, and that’ll be about eight-tenths of a mile, and that’ll be a great start!” I said to no one in particular.

Oh, how the running gods chortled. “You are retarded,” they said.

I felt great in the first 50 yards or so. “Hey, this isn’t too bad,” I thought. “I could do this!”

And, if I had stopped there, turned around and ran back to the house, I would have felt like a champion. A slow champion, like Bill Elliott these days, but a champion regardless.

Alas, I didn't stop. I continued running, well past that 50-yard mark.

At roughly a quarter-mile (well short of my original "end of my road" goal), I turned around and started back to the house. "Hey, I can still get a half-mile in," my last sentient thought for the next few hours went.

At 3/8 of a mile, my legs gave out. I walked a short distance before turning it back on the last 150 yards. And when I say "turned it on," I mean "gimped home like those guys who are still trying to finish the Boston Marathon 18 hours after the race is over."

In hindsight, it's a bad idea to start a full-on running program after taking 15 years off. Regardless, I'm going to modify my plan and ease back into it - total mileage for the week: 1 - stop smoking and perhaps attain all of those dreams I mentioned earlier.

Regardless, this scare has brought about what's going to be a pretty major sea change in my life.

There are things that I've taken for granted that I don't want to take for granted anymore, and I've already detailed those things here even before September 21.

I want to spend more time outside with the boy and less time inside trying to hear the TV over his requests for me to come play with him.

I want to spend less time looking at porn and more time looking at my wife. (Oh, I can do both.)

And if I never run a sub-20 5K, or even make it to where I can run a 5K without stopping to suck air, that's OK. I still feel like I'm already a hell of a sight healthier - and maybe even more exercise tolerant! - than I was when I transported myself to the emergency room two weeks ago. And hopefully I'll be around to pester my wife and keep my son out of the gutter for many years to come.