In My Future Life, I'm A Runner

Banes of my existence, both of them.

It might surprise some people, but back when I was a kid, I loved to run. I used to compete in school sports days in the track events and was actually pretty good.

And then I grew up, found myself married and with three kids by the age of 22, and got fat.

Naturally, I stopped running.

Running has always held some sort of magical appeal for me. I imagine I'm at my goal weight, sprinting around an oval or gliding my way down the footpath, wind in my hair (in your dreams you're allowed to forgo the practicality of a ponytail), stamina in spades. When I finally stop, I'm puffed, but not out of exhaustion - I'm exhilarated. I'm sweating but it's a delicate sheen and not the 'blotchy, red and dripping' scenario that is closer to my current truth.

At 25 kilograms heavier than I should be, running like this is nigh on impossible. But the dream persists.

Couch to 5km programs promise to make me a runner in 9 short weeks, but I've never made it past week 2 before. I once tried to progress and collapsed in the grass on the side of the road with a stitch so bad I thought I was having a heart attack. I'm not ready to try again. I dig being conscious.

My treadmill - affectionately called Freddy Treddy - is a great hulking beast that takes up half my loungeroom. When I hit a groove in my walks with Freddy, when the tempo of my iPod accelerates toward a song's chorus and the familiar urge to just let go and run, run, run wins out briefly, I imagine I'm 13 again. I'm going to win this race. I can see the finish line.

And then my breath gives out, or my legs cramp up, and the voices in my head scream at me to stop. I've reached capacity in just 20 seconds. But Freddy doesn't judge. He just waits for me to come back tomorrow.

One day, I will run again - and not because I have to. I will run for pleasure and for the thrill of entering (and god-willing, finishing) races.

Imagine! Running a whole 5km!