I'm a slow runner ...

... but a determined one. I've been running for almost 20 years, and I started, basically, because it was the cheapest way I could think of to shed the 50 pounds I'd gained in the dorms at UC Davis. I remember chugging along Sycamore Lane toward campus, past all the college-named streets: Wake Forest, Cornell, Villanova, Radcliffe. I didn't know whether to breathe through my nose or my mouth, and my lungs were on fire most of the time. I'd have to stop every few minutes and catch my breath. But I'd do 2 miles, three or four times a week.

I did take off the weight -- though it took me almost two years and cutting back on Taco Bell. But weight control isn't the only reason I run. I run now because I'm a runner. Running is like prayer for me. My mind is calm, my body's working and I feel completely, totally free.

I should mention, since my high school friends will never let me forget, that I was the girl in P.E. class who always had a reason why I shouldn't run laps around the soccer field or the pond at the park near campus. I had cramps, or I had a bum knee. I don't really know why I hated running all that much. Actually, I think I do. It's because I was slow.

When I was living in San Francisco, I consulted with a running coach. I'd been running for a dozen years at that point, and raced in a few 5Ks. I never seemed to get any faster, and it was frustrating. In my world, if you worked hard at something, you got better -- simple as that. But I was running and running and running, and not getting any faster.

This running coach met me at the fabled Kezar Stadium, where the Haight-Ashbury melts into the Inner Sunset. She had me run 2 miles as fast as I could, and she videotaped me. I remember running as fast as I could that day, but when I looked at the tape later, it looked like I was sort of shuffling around the track.

"You have a short, choppy stride," she wrote in my assessment, but that I should try to build up my speed first and then work on lengthening my stride. She also diagnosed my hips as "hypermobile," and suggested Pilates to strengthen my core. The coach also recommended that I join her early-morning track workouts, with an all-female running group called the Iguanas.

The Iguanas bill themselves as a fun, non-competitive group of women who like to run and train together. But the Iguanas workouts kicked my ass. I was always the last woman running, or second to last. And that kind of sucked, so I stopped going. But I never stopped running.

I've run in Spain, Italy, South Africa, Costa Rica and Ethiopia. I've run in Denver, in Boston, in St. Petersberg, Fla., and along the shores of Lake Michigan. I've run four half-marathons, a dozen 10Ks and countless 5Ks. I'd like to run a marathon. Maybe someday.

I call myself a writer -- and, indeed, I write and edit for a living -- but I haven't written much in my off hours. I can come up with all kinds of reasons why: I'm busy. I have a son now. There's dog hair to be Dustbusted. I write for a living -- why do it when I don't have to? But the bottom line is that writing is as much a part of me as running is. And if writing about my other passion can stoke some sort of fire, so much the better.

I call this blog "Short Stride" after the assessment given to me by that running coach in San Francisco. I'm not a great runner -- I'm probably not even a good one. But I love doing it, and I love spreading the gospel of feet-on-pavement.

Enjoy.