“I just felt like running,” stated Forrest Gump and to runners this is one of the greatest quotes of all time. My trophy wife and I run 35 to 50 miles each week whether we are training for a specific event or because we just feel like running. Saturday we ran the Spokane Marathon. The race began in Post Falls, Idaho, crossed into Washington and followed the Spokane River 26.2 miles back to Spokane. Describing a marathon to someone who has never run one is like describing color to a blind person.

With sufficient training, the first 20 miles are great; it is the final 6.2 where you discover your inner mettle. During these miles it is the runner’s mantra “Death before DNF” (Did Not Finish) that drives each step. Just like life, when you think you can’t take it any longer, you do.

Although the race temperature was only in the 70’s it felt much warmer as I thought back to one of our cooler training runs last February. As I recall, it was a few minutes after four a.m., when I handed the first cup of coffee to my trophy wife who was warmly nestled under the covers. “There is six inches of fresh snow and it’s 20 below,” I reported as she slowly raised her hand for the cup. This was a bit of a fib, as 20 is the bottom limit on our deck thermometer; our garage thermometer read a more accurate minus 28. With surprisingly minimal protest, Druann dressed and we staggered into the cold and snowy darkness. In one-quarter mile we met up with Tim, our only other running friend simple-minded enough to join us that morning. The cold was amazing and we shortened our run to four miles.

With a half-mile to go, the side effect of caffeine on my kidney filtration rate kicked in, so I sprinted home for a potty break. I could have addressed my bladder business ranch kid style, but minus 28 degrees was a dangerous time to be writing one’s name in the snow. Once home, as I trotted past the bathroom mirror, I marveled how my frozen sweat made me look like a spandex snowman. Thinking this would make a great Christmas card photo for our normal friends, I grabbed my camera and shuffled towards the door to catch Druann before she and the dog came in the house and melted. I struggled to tug the restrictive waist band of five frozen layers of spandex above my backside and hollered “Stop! Hold Cash by the thermometer and I’ll snap a picture.” With a four inch wide wad of waistbands rolled tightly beneath my cheeks, I looked like I belonged on a skate board ad at Rimrock Mall. I was making a fashion statement the sight of which would have permanently damaged my grown children had they seen me at that instant.

There are three concrete steps out the back door of our house. With my camera in hand, I jumped into the snow on the first one. At a speed faster than the laws of physics deem possible, both of my feet shot clear above my head as I threw the camera across the patio trying to catch myself. I flew past the second step landing on the corner of the third. The impact should have shattered my tail bone, but the wad of spandex waistbands scrunching my cheeks together absorbed the entire blow. It was my lucky day.

For the second time in my 30 years of marriage, my trophy wife shrieked, “Krayton!” (Relax; the first time was last July when I hit a gopher mound with my prop thus causing our plane to disappear in a cloud of dirt. That time, she sunk her nails into my throttle hand and shrieked my first, middle and last names.)

My point today is my trophy wife and I run because we like to run. No one is, nor should be, forcing us. If you agree, think about this: This May, the First Lady’s Childhood Obesity Task Force introduced legislation forcing states receiving federal grants to report the Body Mass Index (BMI) annually on all children ages 2 to 18, to the federal government. I have a big problem with that. Remember, this is a directive from the masters of political incrementalism, so stopping at age 18 is only a temporary, first step. Since the populace is now given free government healthcare it is only fitting the government will dictate your ideal BMI. As a point of reference, anyone with a BMI over 24 is considered overweight. I am a 25. Let that soak in while you think about dressing for a four mile run with Druann, Tim and me when it is minus 28 on a snowy February morning. How’s that “hope and change” thing working for you now? Do you have a level of freedom you are not willing to exchange for security, because I crossed that threshold several administrations ago.