Ah, What the Hell…

Part of a gym workout—whether it’s CrossFit or any HIIT program—is a run. Usually a tidy little block: 400 meters, 800 meters, maybe a spicy 1000 if the coach is feeling particularly cheerful that day.

Now anyone who has read the entire Kiki Box Set of blogs already knows that my left knee is basically shredded. A medial and lateral meniscus tear, plus a healthy helping of arthritis, has been tagging along with me for years like a barnacle on the bottom of a boat. My orthopedist and I are on a first-name basis at this point. He won’t operate yet because I’ve built up my quads so much that the knee is still functioning well enough. So every year we kick that knee-replacement can a little farther down the road.

My mom had both knees replaced in her 60s, so I’m probably on the clock.

Not ready yet.

Anyhoo…

Last week at the gym I stared at the workout on the whiteboard.

There it was.

400m run (2x).

I stared again. It stared back. I swear I heard that little spaghetti-western flute whistle right before the gunfight.

In the past 11.8 years of gym life, I’ve always hopped on the Assault Bike or the rower and cranked out the run equivalent. Everyone knew the drill.

Kiki doesn’t run.

I power walk and hike every Spartan and Tough Mudder race—every single one. I run at the end to jump the fire and cross the finish line, but the other 5 to 16 miles are all power hikes.

Well.

Last week that changed.

I ran.

This morning I rolled into the 7:30 class only to see the same workout format—but now the run was inserted into two stations.

Cue the spaghetti western music again.

Enter Kiki.

Our girl was doing it again.

It was 38 degrees and misty. Black snow still dotted the streets from the last storm. My breath was coming out in hot clouds, but I was chugging along.

And then the WayBack Machine pulled up.

It took me to 1978.

Thirteen-year-old me and my friend Jean Daly were running through the streets of Bethpage during a Saturday cross-country practice. We were bored, and we happened to be near Jean’s house, so naturally we stopped in.

Jean’s mom decided this was the perfect moment to whip up pancakes.

I remember saying, “But… we’re running?”

Her mom waved us off. “Oh, just take a break.”

So there we were.

Two runners.

And Mrs. Butterworth.

To this day I have no idea how we managed to eat pancakes, get back out the door, and run all the way up to the Junior High School in time to finish practice—but somehow we did.

I started giggling out there on the road. It’s funny where the WayBack Machine will take you.

Eventually it dropped me back at the gym.

I wrapped up the workout with 500 meters on the rower and some sled pushes and pulls, feeling pretty good about the whole situation.

And that’s when it hit me.

For years I told myself I didn’t run anymore.

Turns out that wasn’t exactly true.

Maybe I’m not fast. Maybe my knee sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies some mornings. But every once in a while, when the whiteboard throws down the challenge and the spaghetti western music starts to play, there’s still a little runner hiding in there.

And sometimes the only response left is the one that’s served me well for decades:

Ah, what the hell. Let’s run.

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