Six Reasons Why I Won't Run Again at Age 54

Last year when I was 54, I decided I would try running (not for the presidency--but for weight loss, looking good, feeling good). It was a big mistake. I've been a loyal walker for 25 years, averaging about 28 miles per week. I've enjoyed it most of the time, walk through most kinds of weather and, most important, never suffered any pain from it. Then I read an article about a woman who was 80 years old and still running marathons. She had started running at age 54. If she could, why couldn't I? After ending up in physical therapy for five months and not able to walk up and down the stairs without pain that started in my butt and ran down to my left knee, I finally figured out why:

1. Not everyone is made the same. That 80-year-old woman who began running at the age of 54 apparently was made to run. And I'm not. It's as simple as that.

2. I started off on the wrong foot. Actually, I started off on the wrong shoe. My friend Diane, an avid and successful runner for over 30 years, was thrilled that I was finally joining the running world. She went with me to get my first running shoes. They would have been perfect, except that I have abnormal feet. I found out only later during a physical therapy diagnosis that I had flat feet and they're also pronated. In other words, my knees turned inward a bit. So if I was going to run, I needed a certain kind of running shoe with special arch support.

3. I started off too fast. Now that's not really true, because you wouldn't really call what I was doing running or jogging. It was hardly faster than walking. It was more like a groping walk, if you know what I mean-sort of like a person who can walk, has a stroke and then tries to run. That's more what it was like. So when I say I started off too fast, I mean I tried to "run" every day at the beginning when I should have walked, then run, walk some more and then run some more. To be honest, I would have been better off having started walking, then running--then quitting.

4. I dreaded it. There are times when I don't want to walk, such as during any kind of rain and a below-zero blizzard. Except for the usual nasty northeastern blizzard, I usually do make myself walk. But with running, it was something else. I dreaded it. I loathed it. That should have given me a clue that running was not my thing. But I thought it was normal to hate it. Who could like it? Do you ever see happy joggers or runners?

5. People made fun of me. No one ever noticed me walking except for strangers who felt sorry for me, apparently, and would offer me rides. But when I jogged, people would chuckle as I went by. One young guy actually crossed my path and said, "You call that jogging?" I was so upset that I called Diane and told her what happened. She tried to console me by saying that lots of non-runners say things because they're jealous. Well, let me tell you: that was not the case. This young guy was not jealous of me looking like a struggling stroke victim. I guess I was lucky someone didn't try to put me out of my misery by squashing me with his or her car, the way you do with a poor bug that's dying on the pavement. (By the way, I never do something so disgusting like that, but my boyfriend loves to do that.)

6. I got hurt. This was one of those gradual injuries that start off bad and get worse. You know something is wrong right away but you're too stupid to listen to your stupid body. The pain began about three months into my running career. No, that's a lie. It started maybe a month after my jogging career which totally ended after three months. My left leg began feeling weak when I ran. That would ease up as the numbness began. But then I found that I couldn't walk up the steps after running without very bad pain that, as I said, started from my butt and went down to my knee. That went away until the next time I ran. Finally, though, I couldn't even walk without pain up and down the stairs just during normal walking. It got to the point where I couldn't alternate stairs; I had to do that same-foot-down kind of pattern. That worked very well as I chased after kids in the school (I'm a substitute teacher). It turned out I had sciatica and a fancy medical term that means pain starting in your butt and going down to your knee.

Well, one year, 18 physical therapy sessions and $600 of co-pays later (and no more running), I'm beginning to be able to walk down the street and up and down the stairs with less pain. I've learned my lesson. I'll never run again-and I'm proud of it. No, that's a lie, too. I still think of that now 81-year-old woman who's still running marathons (maybe she's dead). So let's just leave it that I'll never run again.