There are two types of people in this world: those who run and those who can't.
I always believed I belonged in the second group. I can walk just fine. I can do jumping jacks and a little yoga. I can exercise and lift weights. I can do a whole lot of things an ordinary person might define as physical exertion. Running didn't happen to be one of them. It was outside my realm of possibilities.
Or so I believed.
Then, one unsuspecting day while on an ordinary, leisurely-paced walk, something foreign came over me and an unlikely thought crept into my head: Maybe I should try running.
I ignored the impulse at first because it was crazy. I am not a runner. Never have been. I can't run.
But that day on the tarred road - after I made sure no one was watching - I took a few tentative strides. Before I had a chance to think, "I can't," I'd covered most of a block. My lungs were about to burst, so I resumed my normal walking pace and huffed and puffed - trying to catch my breath - for what seemed like an eternity.
About a block later, I had the urge to do it again.
I wasn't good at it. I couldn't go very far. I'm sure my form was flawed in numerous ways. The effort made me completely out of breath. But I was running. (Okay, probably more like jogging, but let's not get caught up in semantics.) The newness and the possibilities brought on a sense of exhilaration.
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Anyone who believes such lore should meet my 81-year-old dad. He hasn't taken up running (yet) but he did cook his first ever turkey this Thanksgiving. Two years ago, his kitchen expertise consisted of hitting the button on the microwave and (perhaps) turning on the coffee.
Now he's roasted a turkey - to perfection. The bird was tender and juicy and such a success that he's already cooked a second one. He's doing other things in the kitchen as well. My dad has become a cook.
I guess the old apple doesn't fall far from the old tree. My dad is learning to cook; I am learning to run. Two old dogs learning new tricks.
Unlike my dad, I haven't mastered my new set of skills. You don't start out in the kitchen by roasting a turkey. You stir up a pot of soup, or give a go at scrambling a couple of eggs. You work up to the turkey. The same goes for running - and life.
Some people run marathons or 5K races. I run a teeny tiny bit -at best a block or two. Someday I may go the length of a 1K (impressive, isn't it?) Still, I am running.
A year ago my dad couldn't cook a turkey. A month ago I couldn't run. Now look at us.
There are two types of people in this world: those who run and those who believe they can't. I used to be a member of the latter group. That's changed, leaving one question: What else is out there that I can't do - yet?
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
I always believed I belonged in the second group. I can walk just fine. I can do jumping jacks and a little yoga. I can exercise and lift weights. I can do a whole lot of things an ordinary person might define as physical exertion. Running didn't happen to be one of them. It was outside my realm of possibilities.
Or so I believed.
Then, one unsuspecting day while on an ordinary, leisurely-paced walk, something foreign came over me and an unlikely thought crept into my head: Maybe I should try running.
I ignored the impulse at first because it was crazy. I am not a runner. Never have been. I can't run.
But that day on the tarred road - after I made sure no one was watching - I took a few tentative strides. Before I had a chance to think, "I can't," I'd covered most of a block. My lungs were about to burst, so I resumed my normal walking pace and huffed and puffed - trying to catch my breath - for what seemed like an eternity.
About a block later, I had the urge to do it again.
I wasn't good at it. I couldn't go very far. I'm sure my form was flawed in numerous ways. The effort made me completely out of breath. But I was running. (Okay, probably more like jogging, but let's not get caught up in semantics.) The newness and the possibilities brought on a sense of exhilaration.
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Anyone who believes such lore should meet my 81-year-old dad. He hasn't taken up running (yet) but he did cook his first ever turkey this Thanksgiving. Two years ago, his kitchen expertise consisted of hitting the button on the microwave and (perhaps) turning on the coffee.
Now he's roasted a turkey - to perfection. The bird was tender and juicy and such a success that he's already cooked a second one. He's doing other things in the kitchen as well. My dad has become a cook.
I guess the old apple doesn't fall far from the old tree. My dad is learning to cook; I am learning to run. Two old dogs learning new tricks.
Unlike my dad, I haven't mastered my new set of skills. You don't start out in the kitchen by roasting a turkey. You stir up a pot of soup, or give a go at scrambling a couple of eggs. You work up to the turkey. The same goes for running - and life.
Some people run marathons or 5K races. I run a teeny tiny bit -at best a block or two. Someday I may go the length of a 1K (impressive, isn't it?) Still, I am running.
A year ago my dad couldn't cook a turkey. A month ago I couldn't run. Now look at us.
There are two types of people in this world: those who run and those who believe they can't. I used to be a member of the latter group. That's changed, leaving one question: What else is out there that I can't do - yet?
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
