Running is for jackasses.

I love running.

I thought I might actually be onto something when, in junior high, I was spectacularly average in running the mile in Phys Ed, as opposed to my embarrassingly abysmal performances in other sports. I didn't even need to stop and walk like the other girls (who were cool), who, in reality, were probably only really held back by the extreme strain of wind resistance on their aerosoled, gravity-defying hood ornaments of hair (try as I could, my hair never could never really take wings like that---not cool). This running could very well be my ticket into the elusive realm of jockdom (cool). I had the corner on the market when it came to the grades and music (not cool, but believe you me, I think I did make it a little cooler), but I had always been seduced by the siren song of that other beautiful and shiny athletic world of huddles and matching uniforms and getting out of class early (cool). Cursed by an unforgiving genepool and fear of the ball (not cool), I learned that redemption could be found in a sport so accepting that the coaches couldn't kick you off the team---even if they wanted to, as long as you kept showing up to practices like a bad penny. Here before me was a sport where you could succeed by sheer virtue of your stubbornness (cool). Jackasses apply within. So guess what that made me? (and don't answer cool)

My illustrious barely-varsity-even-as-a-senior running career should have, by all reasonable stretches of the imagination, ended right there in high school. But as if to spit in the very face of logic, running has not only continued as a hobby for me; it's asserted itself to a place of dominance in my life. There was a time while at BYU that the thought of missing my daily run was as crazy as leaving the house in the morning without pants. That's just how much I needed it. I'm convinced that the running saved me thousands in therapy bills.

In 1998, I snuck into the St. George Marathon, my first marathon. I hadn't even trained, but was love at first run. I knew it would not be my last. I dedicated my efforts to my mom, and to this day I still give her all of my finisher medals. The ripple effect of this past quasi-illegal action (brother Spencer drove the getaway car) has been extraordinary, amongst the many ripples being a transformation of the way people perceived me. Now, for the first time ever, people introduced me like "This is my friend Camille, the marathoner." Without hesitation. . . in the same breath. What happened, all of a sudden, to "Camille the music major" or "Camille the girl who is addicted to Mountain Dew?" Surely these people were delusional.

Having now stolen the last lucky golden ticket from Charlie---yes, that's how lucky and kinda guilty I feel---I've miraculously set foot into that magical chocolate factory where jocks come from (and seen how the everlasting gobstopper is made). Lucky, because it still just seems so improbable to me, desperately impossible as my plight once was, that I could have entered this cool club as a product of my hard work. I mean, really, since when does hard work pay off? Plus, the cool kids never seemed to work that hard at it, so it's just really hard to associate the two now.

I feel guilty because now everyone thinks I'm something I'm not. To admire me for my athletic prowess is to be misguided by a little ignorance. At least it's harmless ignorance that's not keeping kids hungry in Africa. But let me come clean: Most people haven't run 26.2 before, so they don't realize that they could do it themselves. The truth is that, yes, it is very hard, sometimes excruciating, and so much work, but you don't need coordination or coolness to do it. . . just great joints. So admire me for that. Well, not for my unrelenting joints, but that I've set a goal and accomplished it.

I'm not cool because I'm in the club. I'm cool because I'm the stubbornest jackass in the club. But you are not allowed to introduce me as "My friend Camille, the . . . "