When the only thing separating you from a fun hobby is motivation and effort

Until recently when I sold them, I owned three saxophones: an alto, a baritone, and a 100-year-old C melody. I kept them in my office/computer/music room upstairs.

I loved playing them, but I never actually did.

I also have a telescope in our basement storage room that I've used to observe the craters of the moon, the rings of Saturn, and the moons of Jupiter. I'm always amazed at what I see through the viewfinder, but I haven't brought it out in probably two years.

This is not to mention the shelves full of books I don't read or the running gear that sits unused in my closet because all I do these days exercise-wise is lift weights and walk.

What unites all of these activities is the fact that (a) I enjoy them, and (b) I never seem to do them.

And the only reason I don't do them is because I can never seem to drum up the motivation.

Not that any of them requires extraordinary motivation and effort. The worst thing with the saxophones, for example, was getting them out of the case, putting them together, and warming them up so I could play music.

This isn't difficult, but it was apparently a barrier to entry for me because whenever I thought about playing, I would instead decide that another game of solitaire on my phone was preferable to, you know, actually walking up the stairs and pulling out one of my horns.

The telescope is even easier to use. Just bring it up from the storage room, go out in the driveway and point it at the sky. I know how to find stuff from there, but...well, I'm on the couch petting the cat, you see, and that's a whole lot easier.

I'm realizing that life would be more fun if I could force myself to give the slightest effort whenever I'm not working or engaged in some household chore.

Is this because I'm 55 years old? Am I stuck in some sort of rut? Or has my iPhone turned me into a slug?

The answer is probably yes to all three.

Here's the good news, though: I'm very close to buying myself a nice, intermediate-level alto sax from my instrument repair and sales guy, Jon-O. And when I do, I plan to play it regularly. At least once a week.

Really, I will.

Of course, the saxophone requires a lot of air and mental energy, neither of which my phone's Yahtzee app requires of me, so...you know...maybe it's still kind of a toss-up.

A man's STILL got to know his limitations

(NOTE: This post was published five years ago today on September 5, 2016. I went back to it to see if it all still holds true. The answer is yes, except that, as recently pointed out, I don't do long tedious car rides as well as I used to. Other than that, these are still a few of the items on my long list of weaknesses and flaws...though to my credit, I fully embrace them all.)

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.

• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.

• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.

• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.

• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably still your guy.

• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.

• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.

• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.

• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.

• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.

• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

I am fascinated by two new characters in my neighborhood

I have previously brought up the fact that, on my morning walks/runs, there is a relatively fixed list of people I encounter. From the stars of the past (Cologne Guy, Relentlessly Waddling Lady) to the current lineup of characters (Hound Dog Guy, Nightgown Woman), I feel like I know these folks intimately, even though we've never done more than nod politely to one another as we pass.

There are two recent additions to the list about whom I've been thinking a lot.

One is a lady I've dubbed Mushmouth. It has nothing to do with how she speaks – I've never actually talked to her – but rather derives from the fact that she always wears a large floppy hat pulled down very low, to the point that you can't see her face.

The name comes from this character on the old Fat Albert cartoon:

It may be 95 degrees outside, but Mushmouth can be seen walking up and down Rockefeller Road with that hat. And regardless of the weather conditions, she is always bundled up and appears to be leaving on some sort of Arctic expedition.

I am brimming with questions about her, but mainly I admire her toughness and ability to log so many miles while undoubtedly working up quite a sweat underneath all of those clothes.

Oh, and she also carries a purple umbrella (again in all weather conditions) which she occasionally uses as a parasol.

I'm stumped.

I'm also amazed at the abilities of Orange Sweatshirt Man. He's not really new to the list, but he has made so many appearances this year that I only just got around to officially adding him.

OSM is an older gentleman who rides his bike all over Wickliffe, Willoughby, and Willoughby Hills. I've seen him in many different places as I drive, but most sightings have occurred near my house, again on Rockefeller Road.

One time I saw he and Mushmouth pass each other. Neither one acknowledged the other, but you could feel that something special had just happened.

OSM is a beast on that bike, and I'm not kidding. He rides up the very steep Rockefeller Road hill and barely breaks a sweat doing it. And much like Mushmouth, he wears the same clothes (sweatshirt, hat, long pants) no matter the conditions. He has to be well into his 60s if not his 70s.

I get the impression he is tougher than you and me combined.

When the zombie apocalypse comes, I want both of these people on my side.

Hello, running, my old friend, I've come to jog with you again

For many years, I was a runner.

Not a runner who would win road races or anything, but depending on the size of the race, for a few years there I was a decent bet to walk away with a third-place age group medal or something similar.

Then I stopped running, in part to train for a 250-mile walk that, as it turns out, isn't going to happen.

And now, only very recently, I've dipped my toe back into the running pool.

The reason is simple, and it has almost nothing to do with the health benefits of the activity: I just miss the act of running.

That is to say, I miss the feeling of going fast and grinding out miles and just plain moving at a pace at which I'm not likely to move the rest of the day.

As much walking as I've done over the years, I don't enjoy it the way I enjoy running.

So I've started getting back into running.

The problem, as you may have gathered from yesterday's post, is that while I'm not quite starting at zero, I'm still really, really out of running shape.

I have weight to lose, lung capacity to rebuild, and the ever-present specter of a pulled calf or hamstring muscle to deal with. So I'm starting v-e-r-r-r-r-r-y slowly.

Father Time being undefeated and all, there is a limit to what I can do in terms of weekly mileage and pace, but I know I have a lot of room to grow still.

At age 51, I am just not yet ready to permanently hang up the running shoes.

Still, keep that Ben Gay nearby for me, if you would. You know, just in case.

Born to run. Or at least I used to be.

I have long thought of myself as a runner. Some people don't think they're runners because they don't do marathons, or they "only" run two or three days a week.

Rule of thumb: If you get outside and run, or you hop onto a treadmill and run, you're a runner. If you cover even 10 feet more ground than a couch potato does, and even if you do it at a snail's pace but it's a running pace for you, then you're a runner.

Trust me, it's not some elite club you can't join.

Anyway, I run. For the past couple of years, the cadence of my running has been four days a week. Usually Saturday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Most of my runs are 3 miles in length, over a fairly hilly course in my neighborhood. On Saturdays I'll often do a 5-miler over that same hilly course.

But lately there have been no 3-mile runs. There have been mostly 0-mile runs. Because I'm hurt.

99.99% of runners, at one point or another, get hurt. For some it's the joints. They tweak a knee or an ankle and have to sit out for a period of time. Then, once they're healed, they run again.

For me it's muscles. And specifically the muscles of my calves.

Over the past year, I've strained various muscles in both calves a total of nine times. That's according to my daily running log, which I've been keeping assiduously since 2001.

(NOTE: I thought of the word "assiduously" the other day for no reason at all, and now I get to use it in a blog post. Score.)

Actually, those calf strains have all happened over the past eight months. The problem being that I hurt one, I rest for a little while but not long enough, I go back out and try to run, and I hurt it again. Then I repeat that cycle.

Then that calf finally heals, and somehow the other one decides to tear. And I go back out, and I hurt it again, etc.

I'm in the middle of this insanity right now with my left calf, and I've been sticking to brisk walks, rather than runs, in an attempt to let it mend itself. This works for a while, but then I'll be out walking and think to myself, "The calf feels fine. I should run a mile or so to test it."

So I do. And for most of that mile it feels fine.

Then it suddenly doesn't. Because my calves hate me, and they delight in nothing more than letting me think I'm OK and then tearing themselves out of sheer spite.

This leads to a love-hate relationship with my calves. On the one hand, they're clearly trying to kill me, or at least drive me crazy, which makes me hate them. But on the other hand – and I'm going to be perfectly honest with you here – I have great calves.

No, really, it's one part of my body I actually like. My calves are genetically awesome. One time I remember walking back to the locker room after a football practice, and Vic Peroni was behind me and said, "Tennant, give me your calves!"

This is Vic Peroni, who was pretty ripped. The guy had muscle upon muscle, but my calves were the one area where I had him beat.

So as vain as it is to say, I have nice calves, and I tell them how nice they are all the time, yet they still choose to hate me. I feel like the parent of a criminal: I want to love them, but they continually disappoint me.

Anyway, I am, as I type this, once again sidelined by a left calf strain. I'm walking four days a week, and I've created what I hope is a sensible, patient recovery schedule that involves walking for the next few weeks, then a couple of weeks' worth of combined walking and light running, and eventually stepping up to a full running schedule again.

In the meantime, I can't run. And I hate that. I HATE that. I run for health and weight management and all, yes. But do you know the #1 reason I run?

Because I love running. I love the physical act of running. I love that, at the age of 47, when my calves cooperate, the rest of me is in sufficient condition to run several miles a week. The feeling of putting one foot in front of the other is my high. I don't really drink. I definitely don't do drugs. But I do run.

And right now I can't.

It's a terrible sort of withdrawal that manifests itself in the form of general fatigue and blah-ness. I'm addicted to the act of running, and right now I can't do it.

My advice to you: Do not become a middle-aged person if you can help it.

A man's got to know his limitations

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.
  
• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.
  
• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.
  
• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.
  
• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably your guy.
  
• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.
  
• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.
  
• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.
  
• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.
  
• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.
  
• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

Things I didn't accomplish in 2015

(1) Learn how to speak Latin. This is mostly because, like the guy who complains about not winning the lottery but never actually buys a ticket, I didn't technically study Latin this year. Still, I consider it a failure.

(2) Figure out how to drive a stick shift. Again, I never actually tried doing this, but the fact remains that, as was the case a year ago, I still can't drive a car with a manual transmission.

(3) Spend the time I want to spend with my kids. Yeah, yeah, I have to earn a living to support them and all, which takes a lot of time. There are probably a million excuses I can make. But the fact is I fell short in this area. Again. Gotta do better in 2016.

(4) Write my wife a poem. Or a song or something. I really should do that. I used to make up very Caucasian rap songs about her when we were dating. Like, on the spot. I could improvise quickly. Not so much anymore. That's a skill I ought to dust off because, really, who DOESN'T want to listen to a 46-year-old suburban (read: white) guy rap about his main squeeze?

(5) Read through the Bible in a year. I've only ever actually done this one time, and it was the year 2000. I should be doing this every year. I didn't make it a priority. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also...

(6) Learn to play in the altissimo register on the saxophone. This is a band geeky thing. For you non-musicians – or non-saxophonists, really – the saxophone naturally has a range to high F (some saxes have a key that lets you reach high F-sharp). It's possible to play much higher than that, but you have to learn what is called "altissimo"playing, which is in some ways a very controlled squeak. Something to do with "overtones" and other musical terms. It's difficult but not impossible. Or at least I assume it is, because I never learned it. It's a life goal. I'm going to make it happen.

(7) Run every day. I always say I want to start doing this because I'm inspired when I visit runeveryday.com and read about people who have run at least a mile every day for 5, 10, 15, 20 or more years (two guys actually have streaks of 45 or more years, as certified by the who-knew-they-existed United States Running Streak Association). But my body does not cooperate with this wish. I tear a calf muscle just sitting here thinking about it. I may not have the build ever to actually achieve this, but I'll keep trying.

At some point I'll learn to be content whatever the circumstances...

...but until then I can only envy the Apostle Paul, whose words I appropriated for the title of this post.

This Is Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Winter:

"Oh man, it's cold! IT'S SO COLD! I hate living in Cleveland. The winters here are terrible. It doesn't matter how many layers I wear, these January runs are terrible. This is so stupid. Why don't I just join a gym and exercise inside? IT'S SO COLD! My fingers are numb. And I can't feel my face. There's snow blowing directly at me, and as usual that west wind only kicks up when I'm running west. Why does this happen to me? Why? Why me? IT'S SO COLD!"

And Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Summer:

"It's so hot. I can't believe how hot and humid it is at 5 o'clock in the morning. I'm going to be drenched in sweat by the time I finish, and no matter how long I wait to cool down, I'm still going to be sweating after I get out of the shower. IT'S SO HOT! We need to move to Canada. Like, somewhere in Northern Canada. Somewhere where it never gets above 65 degrees even in July. IT'S SO HOT! I hate running when it's this hot. I love running, but I can't stand running in the heat. My life is terrible."

And so I constantly have to remind myself:

Running, walking, whatever...we all just need to move more

You know that whole thing about getting 10,000 steps a day and how important it is? Yeah, that's actually real.

Not the exact "10,000" number. That's kind of arbitrary.

It's the idea of moving a whole lot more than we Americans do now. We tend to be a very sedentary people. Not all of us, of course, but a whole lot of us.

I'll bet that most people overestimate the number of steps they get in a day unless they wear a pedometer and already know. Because if you're going to go for that 10,000 steps (which again is a good target if not a scientifically precise minimum), you'll find that it's actually quite a distance.

Stride lengths differ, but on average, 10,000 steps means five miles. Do you move five miles in a single day? I'm talking throughout the whole day, whether it's part of an intentional exercise session or not. You probably don't.

But you should.

Eat less, move more. If we did that, we would spend a LOT less on health care. And we would be happier. And fitter. And wouldn't have to shop in the "Husky" section for our clothes.

As it turns out, it doesn't matter much how you get those steps: Run, walk, whatever. Just go.

I happen to be both a walker and a runner these days, depending on my mood and how my muscles feel. Running is more efficient in terms of getting your requisite number of steps in a relatively short period of time. But the downside of running, of course, is that you have to be smart about it. Unless you're genetically programmed to withstand a good dose of daily stress to your joints and leg muscles, you need to take rest days, and you need to be strategic about the way you warm up and the pace at which you run.

Which is why so many people opt instead for walking. Even brisk walking isn't nearly as hard on your body as running is. It's just that it takes longer. You can get essentially the same benefits as you would on a run assuming you're willing and able to invest the time.

Honestly, I think your doctor will tell you it's not how you get your steps in every day, it's that you actually do it. Stay active. Schedule walking/running time, yes, but also include the little things in your day. Take the farthest parking spot that forces you to walk a little more. Climb stairs instead of taking an elevator. Occasionally walk what might otherwise be a short car trip for running errands. Stuff like that.

And do it every day. Every. Single. Day.

I don't like to be preachy about this stuff, but I'm going to do it anyway. I lost a father and a sister to heart disease, and while I realize we're all going to die in the end regardless, I would rather have you all around for as long as possible, if that's OK.

So get off your computer or your phone and go take a walk. Or a run. Whatever. Just move.

Someone just tell me exactly how much I'm supposed to exercise and which pills I'm supposed to take

Once every month or so, I agonize over whether I'm properly taking care of my body.

This takes the form of me checking out a few library books on health and wellness, consulting several websites on those topics, and generally complaining to my wife that I don't have a lot of spare time and I'm not sure whether the physical activity I'm doing is sufficient.

There are at least four things that prompt this behavior:


(1) I think I'm neurotic. I had no idea until just recently.

(2) I'm approaching my mid-40s, which I guess is a time when you start thinking about things like this.

(3) I have very limited time in the mornings to exercise, so I want to make sure I'm doing the right thing.

(4) I have a family history of heart disease that's hard to miss.


My dad passed away at age 70 from heart failure, as did my oldest sister at age 56. As I always (morbidly) say, at least I have a good idea of how I'm going to go when my time comes. We don't get cancer in my family, but we're all pretty good genetic bets to have ticker trouble.

The two ways in which I fight this hereditary curse are to try and maintain a relatively healthy weight and to exercise regularly.

The weight thing I've told you about recently, ad nauseum. I think I've also mentioned the fact that I run regularly. Not as far as I used to, but generally 15-20 miles a week almost without exception.

And there's where the trouble starts. Depending on which author/doctor/health professional you consult, running is either the greatest exercise known to man or the worst thing you can do to your body.

You can find well-designed scientific studies that support both points of view. The pro-running crowd will tell you that man was, biologically speaking, born to run. Long-distance running is something that only humans really do, and are in fact built for.

The anti-runners point to joint problems and indicators of arterial inflammation among runners as signs that maybe lacing up the Nikes five times a week isn't the best idea.

I have no idea what to believe. I like running. I enjoy the act of getting out on the road and ambling. Because I really do "amble" nowadays, at least compared to a decade ago. I'm still faster than a lot of people I know, but various factors have combined to limit me to somewhere around 9-minutes-per-mile pace on most runs.

But I know I should probably also do some strength training, something I've never enjoyed and never gotten into. My doctor says my running is sufficient exercise and poo poos the idea of hitting the weights. And since that's what I want to hear, I believe her.

Yet a lot of authorities will tell you strength training is better for you than cardio work. And maybe they're right, I don't know.

I also take a variety of nutritional supplements every day. So many that I have one of those old-person pill cases to keep them all straight. My 17 daily pills, all of which are voluntarily ingested and not prescribed by a doctor, consist of a multi-vitamin (cut in half so I count it as two), two baby aspirin, three fish oil capsules, three calcium/magnesium/zinc pills, two Vitamin C pills, and individual Vitamin B6, B12, D, E and folic acid supplements.

I've built this regimen through my various readings and not from one authoritative source, which is probably not good. And quite likely a waste of money. But they make me feel like I'm doing something to beat the grim reaper, so I keep buying them.

The one thing I've always wanted and never found is a single book or a single website that tells me what to do: Do this much of this exact kind of exercise. Take only these particular supplements. Get this many hours of sleep. Do all of that, and you'll live a happy, healthy life to the age of 200.

This won't happen, of course, and I'm destined to drop dead someday of a heart attack, probably no matter what I do.

In the meantime, I'll drive Terry to her grave with my constant whining and self-doubt, which is the most ironic part of the whole thing.

A runner's reaction to the bombs in Boston

The horrible events at this week's Boston Marathon broke my heart, for reasons obvious and not so obvious.

The obvious stuff is readily apparent (as obvious stuff tends to be). Three people killed and more than 100 wounded, some whose limbs had to be amputated. Sickening, maddening, wildly unacceptable stuff. I hate the fact that it even happened.

But there's an added dimension to the whole thing if you've ever competed in a long-distance running event, particularly the 26.2-mile marathon.

I don't claim to be an expert on this subject, as I've only ever run one full marathon. And that was nearly 12 years ago. I've also done one half marathon of 13.1 miles and countless local races of shorter distances ranging from 5K to 10 miles.

I've heard the process of training for and running a long-distance race described as "spiritual," and in many ways that is spot on. You put your heart and soul into preparing not only your body but also your mind and spirit for what is often a grueling but deeply fulfilling experience.

I've been there and done that myself many times. Not at anything resembling world-class levels of performance, of course, but I've been there.

Which is why my thoughts turned to the runners who were nearest to the two explosions as they happened.

Being near the explosions meant they were near the finish line. Within yards of it, in fact.

Over the course of the nine months I spent training for the 2001 Towpath Marathon, I often envisioned what it would be like as I approached that finish line. Just the thought of it (without having yet experienced it) gave me chills.

Then, when it actually happened, I felt overwhelmed. I can hardly describe it. When you set yourself a goal like that and work so hard to attain it (through literal blood, sweat and tears), you feel almost every emotion possible when the moment finally arrives.

So here these people were, yards away from completing the most prestigious marathon there is, and then the whole world turned upside down for several minutes.

Please understand, failing to finish a race is nothing compared with the tragedy and loss of human life that occurred on Copley Square. It's inconsequential, at best.

But I couldn't help but feel sorry for those people who came so close and then had the whole thing go wrong.

These were not the people whose stories you would know. These weren't the fleet-footed Kenyans and other supremely talented athletes who log sub-6-minute miles and finish marathon courses in just over two hours.

These people were...well, they were me. My time in my one and only marathon was 3 hours, 46 minutes, 22 seconds. (You don't EVER forget your first marathon time. The numbers are burned into your brain.) The bombs in Boston went off about 4 hours and 9 minutes into the race.

Given that the Boston course is markedly more difficult than the Towpath, and given that I'm a little older and slower now, 4 hours and 9 minutes is probably just about where I would have been finishing had I achieved one of my life goals and run this year's Boston Marathon.

Not that this has anything to do with me, but I can relate to these people. I'm sure every one of them is more grateful to be safe and sound than to have run the last several feet of a race they had essentially completed anyway.

It's just that for those who pull on running tights and get out on the roads day after day to log their miles, there's an added degree of empathy for what happened that goes beyond even the anguish felt by the American public at large (and that's saying something, given how deeply this seems to have affected the average person).

So God bless my running friends who were in Boston that day − fast, slow, or in between. I'm glad you're OK physically, and I hope you're all OK inside, as well. Keep on keepin' on, as they say.

Man in tights

I run. That's what I do for exercise -- I run. Some people don't like running. It's too boring, they say, or their knees can't take it. And I can't argue with that. For them, running doesn't work. For me, it does.

I've run competitive races at distances ranging from 5K (3.1 miles) to a full marathon (26.2 miles). I only run 12 miles a week these days, not so much as a function of age but simply time. Training for and running races is time-consuming. I've got five kids, a job with responsibility, and a million other things to do. Leisurely three-hour long runs on Saturday mornings aren't an option the way they used to be.

Which is fine. And by "fine" I mean, "I live with it because I have to, but I really, really wish I could get back into doing a lot more miles every week." Because not only are there health benefits to running -- a good thing in my heart-disease-prone family -- but I actually enjoy it. I love the feeling of getting out there and settling into a steady pace. I love having my iPod going and a nice cool breeze in my face. I love being the only one on the road at 6 in the morning.

I love the gear, too: Running shoes, winter hats, gloves, different types and weights of undershirts, special running shorts, my GPS running watch, and even the tube of skin lubricant that Terry lovingly refers to as my "booby lubey."

I also love the record-keeping. Yes, there's record-keeping in running, at least if you're doing it right. I keep a log book in which I record every run: date, distance, time, temperature, and general comments on how it went. There's also a column in which I keep a running tally of how many miles I've put on a particular pair of shoes, since you're supposed to replace your shoes every 350 to 500 miles. I wait until the 600- or 700-mile mark, to be honest, but that's only because I'm cheap and don't want to shell out another 100 bucks for running shoes.

I don't skip a beat in winter. It's just a matter of dressing right. I have three pairs of what I like to call lycras but that my kids simply call "Daddy's running tights." They're not tights! Well, maybe they are tights, but the rule is that we do not call them tights. Rarely do I exercise fatherly authority in cases of semantics, but in this instance I do. They all ignore me, of course, but officially they're Daddy's lyrcras, not his "tights."

Anyway, the lycras keep my warm, even on the coldest of Northeast Ohio days. I've run in single-digit temperatures and I've run when it's in the 80's. I prefer the single digits since heat and I don't get along well, but I'll do the occasional hot-day run when necessary.

Running, as you may have gathered, can be an addiction. You're not supposed to run every day, but once you start building up those miles and get into a regular rhythm, the scheduled rest days can be torture. Your body wants to get out there and run. It's what it has become accustomed to, and it likes when you treat it to a run.

There will come a time over the next couple of decades when the running isn't as fun anymore, I'm sure. The joints will ache, the muscle tears will become more common, and the booby lubey will be replaced by Ben Gay. All of which is fine. When that happens, I'll switch to power walking or something. In the meantime, I'll continue following my 12-miles-a-week running schedule.

But the most important thing to remember is this: They're not tights. They're lycras.