Holding Our Breath

A few years ago, I used to be really into running. I used to be the type who’d balk when a friend would inform a gathered circle of drinking acquaintances that I was “a runner.”

I’d reply, “I’m not; it’s just something I do.”

I’d flutter my hands at the wrists and kick my heel backwards and then say, “I shouldn’t even be able to run! I’m like a little bumble bee!”

Taken as false modesty, the motivation for my playful defensiveness was fairly simple: I wasn’t that good at running.

I mean, yeah, sure, I grew up playing sports, but I was somewhere between an Einstein and a Dunning-Kruger with all my running around on grassy fields or parquet courts. With my stocky, muscular build, I definitely would never consider myself “a natural runner.” Nor believed I’d ever become a runner.

My personal opinion was that no one should ever run more than 10 miles unless they’re running from something. With claws. Or the police. Or their own dark past. If someone wasn’t satisfied with my defensiveness, they’d ask me “How’d you get into that?” The answer to that was also simple: I had nothing better to do.

No job. No money. All the time in the world inside my apartment in an old, decrepit pier-and-beam four-plex in Montrose, the eclectic “Gayborhood” of historic Houston. Imagine having all the time in…