Why I Don't Like Driving

I only started driving about a month ago, mostly because even my parents felt it was time for this layabout eighteen-year-old to get her license. It's not as if I didn't want my license. I just kept telling myself I was too busy to study for the test, that I could always take it later. And later. And later.

I didn't get my permit until only about a month before I graduated from high school. I drove to school with my mother in the passenger seat, warily avoiding the crazy morning rush. I got my license over the summer after employing some rather devious means of preparing for the driving test. I should have been excited with this new-found freedom. But I wasn't. Not really.

First off, I didn't have access to a car. All I'd really done was commandeer my father's car on the days he worked from home. When he was at work, well, I was stuck. Second, I didn't have insurance for almost a month, which pretty much nixed it all. Third, I really had no place to go. I wasn't allowed on the freeways. I had virtually no friends left in town, no really cool place around that I desperately needed to get to. I really had nothing to do except maybe drive to the library and bum about for a bit there.

I'd say that these are all pretty solid reasons for not driving, but they don't really explain why I don't like to drive.

To be honest, I'm terrified of driving.

A while ago, my mother was hit by a car backing out of its parking stall at our local Wal-Mart. It was going what, ten miles an hour at most? It scared the living daylights out of me. My mother had been hit by a car. The physical repercussions of that incident lasted a while for her, and I wondered: If ten miles an hour can do that, what would happen if I hit someone while going twenty-five? Forty? Sixty?

I don't like driving because I'm scared I'm going to do something stupid like reach over to my phone and think: Oh, I'm only going to change the song that's playing. No big deal. But then it is. I'm scared I'll misjudge the distance to the crosswalk and stomp on the brakes a little too late because I was distracted by what's come up over the radio. I'm scared that one day, I'll get too lazy about turn signals, and I'll just ease over into the next lane without even bothering to glance at my mirrors and see the biker on my shoulder.

Yes. I'm scared.

Maybe it's because I'm inexperienced. Maybe it's because I have terrible dreams. Or maybe it's just because I have a deep character flaw that has yet to see the light of day.

Maybe it's all of that.

All I know is that I'm scared.

And I'd rather be scared than sorry.

Strange Encounters

Today was the first day I heard Pastor John MacArthur speak. I was expecting some tiny little shriveled old man; after all, the dude is seventy something years old. But nope. No shriveled old guy. He spent his entire sermon defending the criticism that his Strange Fire conference and book created. It was pretty compelling - just the way he spoke and formulated his arguments. I don't think I've ever realized how much Sunday sermons could be a learning experience.

I ran into an old acquaintance of my brother's today. He was actually my ride to church, but I didn't realize he was from Cerritos until we got to the awkward, obligatory "Oh, so where are you from"s that are so common in a large public college. Once we got past that part, though, it was pretty surreal-they'd known each other since middle school.

We ended up talking over lunch, and he told stories I'm pretty sure my brother would not appreciate... Stories that will probably take a long, long while before they appear on here.

Why I Run

A while ago, I read this comic about running by The Oatmeal. It made me think.

A few days ago, this article titled "OK, You're a Runner. Get Over It" was published in The Wall Street Journal. It irritated me.

For the past week, I've been laid up with a sprained ankle (obtained by falling gracefully down the stairs with a dying sigh), so I've grown increasingly irritated with my inability to throw on some shoes and go out for a run. Today, I decided to forget everything I ever learned about RICE in my four years of high school cross country and run to the local CVS to buy athletic tape for my ankle so I could actually walk down the stairs around campus without holding up traffic. Perfectly logical.

I made about halfway down The Hill before I felt like screaming. And then I kept running. I'm still not entirely sure why.

I joined my high school cross country team the summer before my freshman year. I threw a fit the night before my mother drove me to practice at 6:15 AM in the middle of my summer vacation. I hated running. Why did I have to join cross country? All they did was run.

But my brother had run cross country in high school. So of course I would run cross country in high school.

I went to practice.

I stopped halfway through the workout and pretended to tie my shoe so I could catch my breath. Several shirtless guys raced passed me, and I lost count of how many times I'd been lapped. I was incredibly embarrassed.

But I went to practice the next day. And the day after that. I learned that no matter how hard you try, your socks will get soaked if you run greens at six in the morning. I learned that little puddles won't kill you. I learned that mud might. I learned that it's okay to be left behind to run on your own--when else will you find the peace of empty streets in a bustling suburb? I learned that after a while, everyone running is hurting too bad to care how slow or fast you're going.

I ran my first two-mile race at the end of the summer to a whopping 18:47. I was so happy to have finished at all that I didn't care that my friends were running fourteens and fifteens.

Have you ever been to a cross country race?

It's really something. People line up, eyes straining to catch sight of the first pack, cheering as they flash through this human gauntlet. After most of the runners pass, the crowd thins out, but always, a faithful few remain for the stragglers, the one the coaches aren't yelling at.

I don't know what's better: being part of that crowd, or being that one last runner.

And so somehow, I started loving cross country. And running.

I don't think it's something meant for explanation. Running just becomes a part of you in weird ways, just like when you realize that car turn signals don't flash in time with the clicky noise they make and the world suddenly makes sense.

I know I certainly don't run to look good. I look awful when I run, shoulders hunched, giant knee braces pinching tiny knees above monstrous calf muscles. No. I definitely don't decide to go parade down the street with my thighs jiggling all over the place to look good.

But do I feel good?

Heck yes.