“You have knee pain?” asked the young dermatologist who had just come in to the exam room.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s only after I run.”

She nodded, still looking over my intake survey.

“So it’s exercise induced?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so you’re a runner.”

I half-nodded, feeling a bit like a fraud. Being called a runner was like being called a writer.

Me? Really? Sure you’re not mistaking me with someone who is serious about running/writing? Someone like Haruki Murakami*? Okay, maybe not Murakami. I shouldn’t compare myself to a novelist who runs marathons annually.

I write and I run. I enjoy both and know I can improve, but right now I’m not dedicated enough to feel comfortable when someone calls me a writer/runner.

I’m going to change that and earn both titles. It’s going to take a lot miles and pages.

No problem, I have plenty of time.

Thanks to Oso recommending Murakami’s memoir What I talk about when I talk about running. It was a good read.