I know that, in general, I tend to sugarcoat how I really feel about things, but I'm going to go ahead and be straight with you here: I strongly dislike the recreational pastime of running.

Well. That's not completely true. I loathe it entirely. Like, on the same scale as pink, mushrooms and people who sugarcoat how they really feel about things.

Now, let's be clear, the recreational pastime of running is something totally different from focused, goal-oriented running. Want me to run across a field and shag a few fly balls? No problem. Want to enclose me in a squash court and make me chase the world's least bounciest ball for an hour or two? Sign me up. Want to challenge me to a race in stocking feet at midnight down the middle of empty side street? Take photos! Want me to put on spandex and go outside when it is -20 degrees celcius and push a 60-pound piece of steel across ice as fast as I can? Where's the release form?

If there is a line to cross, a ball to chase or any other parameters that constrain running to a finite, visually-perceptible framework, then the statement "I love to run!" would be entirely accurate.

But we don't live in that sensible, logical world, do we? (If we did, I wouldn't need nearly as much therapy ... )

When someone drives by with an "I love to run!" sticker on their bumper, they aren't picturing spikes and spankies. These sick and twisted people have visions of running so far, and for so long that the corresponding thoughts include chaffed nipples, anti-diarrhea medication, incontinence and dietary sustenance.

Let me say this, just for the record: if you are running for so long THAT YOU ARE MISSING MEALS, FALLING ASLEEP, OR VARIOUS BODY PARTS START BLEEDING OR FALLING OFF, maybe you should reconsider your hobbies.

And maybe you should stop calling ME crazy. I'm just saying.

OK. That said, every once in awhile, I try to cast logic and reason aside, and imagine that maybe, hidden behind the bleeding feet and rashes, is some worthwhile pursuit.

So, I put on running shoes, and snug, non-cotton underwear, and charge my iPod and set my run-tracking program, and I hit the pavement. I normally get about three kilometres (so, like 30 minutes or so) when I remember, oh, yeah. This sucks.

So. Last week, I told my new BFF Hadley (I only know, like, two people in my town, and I am mad at Kirsten right now, so Hadley is BFF by default) that I had successfully "gone for a run." By successful, I mean I didn't throw up, nor did my tracking program laugh at me and automatically change the workout type from "running" to "senior citizen."

So, Haddy suggested that we go running on the trails the next day.

And I was all like "Yeah ... how about no?"

And she was all like "No, come on! The trails are cool, and it's kinda zen to focus on jumping over logs and stuff."

And I was all like "Hmmm ... let me think about it. No."

And she was all like "No seriously, you're gonna love it, and I PROMISE the trails are all pretty flat, and it's not a hard run!"

And I was all like "Really? Well, maybe. Oh, wait. I changed my mind. No."

And she was all like "Put on your damn running shoes and snug, non-cotton underwear, and get your ass over here before I dress you in heels and pink and take you out dancing with me."

And I was all like "Okay. You win."

In conclusion, I present you with this pictorial juxtaposition.

Michelle's idea of "flat" ...

Hadley's idea of "flat" ...

And if Haddy STILL wants to insist that the trail run we did wasn't THAT steep, let me refer to SCIENCE, in the form of my Smart Tracker running program.

My previously mentioned successful solo run: 3.2 kilometers in 23 minutes with an elevation gain of 58 metres.

Our dual trail run completed on threat of pink: 4.2 kilometres in 60 minutes with an elevation gain of 204.6 metres.

So. The position of BFF returns to Kirsten.