“You sure have a unique stride there,” he says, gliding to a stop beside me on the path, sitting low-to-the ground on his three-wheel, aerodynamic bike. “It’s neat though, real neat,” he adds quickly.
“Yeah, it’s not the most efficient,” I agree, tucking a sweaty strand behind my ear and resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath as we wait for the traffic to pass. “But it gets me where I need to go.”
The cyclist was right. In fact, calling my stride “unique” is kind. The truth is, I don’t run with gazelle-like grace. I galumph, awkward and jaunty, more like a wildebeest in a tank top and Nikes.
Instead of kicking straight up and back, my feet swing out to either side in wide arcs. I nick my ankles so frequently with my own sneakers they often bleed, sometimes right through my socks.
…I’m writing about my imperfect running stride and my imperfect faith over at the Lincoln Journal Star. Join me there?
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