I've got the runs.

Last year, I started running.  I also stopped running.  Then I started again.  When you think about it, running is a lot like smoking, only in reverse.

You would think that running wouldn't be that expensive.  You would be wrong.  I have a pair of running shoes that I paid $130 for.  I have a pair of dress shoes that I paid $60 for.  My running shoes will  last about 6 months.  I will probably be buried in my dress shoes, assuming that the employees at the funeral home don't want a $60 pair of black loafers.

Shoes are only the first expense.  Working up from shoes, you come to socks.  Socks made especially for running.  Some people run in normal socks.  These people are known as heathens.  Wearing running socks allows the runner to know that he has been scammed by large multinational athletic companies.  That's something that you can't put a price on.  Well, actually you can, about $10 a pair.  If you run regularly, you'll probably want more than one pair.

Moving up my ever expanding body, I come to the knees.  I wear a knee brace.  It keeps my knee from spontaneously becoming an elbow.  Actually I'm not entirely sure what it does but I've seen people on TV wear them and that's good enough for me.  That was another $15.

I also wear special running pants although here the term "pants" is used rather loosely, unlike the pants which are just tight enough to restrict blood flow to my $10 socks.  They're also tight enough to reveal the location of a small mole on my outer thigh.  They're black but are emblazoned with stylistic racing stripes which make me look like a gazelle.  Specifically, a gazelle that has been singled out by a lioness as a free lunch.  They were $20.

Moving up my geodesic body, we come to the lower part of my midsection.  I wear special running underwear.  The theory is that my special running underwear will prevent chafing.  This theory is only slightly less correct than the flat earth theory.  I've forgotten what I paid for them but I believe that they weren't free.

As we arrive at my pear-shaped chest, you will find my running shirts.  I run in the dark to spare the world the agony of having to see my multiple layers of flab slapping against each other like a pair of twin boys engaged in a death-match round of "Why are you hitting yourself?"  I wear neon yellow t-shirts.  There's a fancy name for it but I'm a guy so to me, it's just yellow.  It might be puce.  Or aqua.  Or ecru.  The good news is that my shirts only cost $5.  The bad news is that when I take them off, the laundry hamper smells like the Harlem Globetrotters visited and left a month's worth of dirty uniforms in the closet.

At the top of my body, somewhere roughly above my neck, we find my enlarged head.  It's big.  Really big.  I wish that implied something other than the fact that it's hard to find hats that fit, but it doesn't.  I wear sweat bands on my head.  I'm not sure what they accomplish.  They don't keep sweat out of my eyes.  In fact, they seem to be designed to gather copious amounts of sweat and then at the worst possible moment, funnel it directly toward my eye sockets, which being shaped like a bowl, are only too willing to collect the perspiration and store it until such time as it is needed.  Unfortunately, it is never needed.  The good news is that head bands are cheap.  The bad news is that they are also worthless.  I wear one nonetheless.

But now I'm a runner.  I did consider a less expensive hobby, like yacht racing, but decided that I'd just look ridiculous wearing deck shoes.

Happy trails.