Just Give me My Nikes and the Open Road

I was six years old the first time my dad took me running. We only went a couple miles, but to me it seemed like a marathon. Step after step, my father coached me along. "Pace yourself," he said, "you don't want to get tired too fast. We have a long way to go."

I had been watching him. Watching as he went out on his daily runs. A former Israeli national marathon champion, my father now ran for sport. And I'd pester him, trailing behind on my bike. "Take me with you, take me with you, Dad - please!"

"It's too far," my father would reply. "Maybe next time we can do a short run."

Finally, the day came. "Put on your gym shoes," my father said. "We'll go for a run."

More than 25-years, seemingly hundreds of pairs of running shoes and thousands of miles later, I'm a grizzled veteran of the pavement: The yapping dogs, nipping at my heels. The honking horns, mingled with the sweet stench of exhaust fumes. The envious stares from sedentary women. The smart remarks from young men.

Wind, rain, sleet, snow, hail, nothing fazes me. Maybe this is hard to understand for someone who's never been there. But every runner knows what I mean.

At first, your muscles ache, they cry out for you to stop. 'Who needs this punishment?' you ask yourself. But then you get into the zone. Your body feels fluid. Your breathing is metered. And you fly.

I guess you can compare it to the surfer catching the perfect wave. Some call it the runner's high. All I know is, it happens. And when it does, nothing can stop you.

So you can keep that extra hour of sleep. Just give me my Nikes and the open road...