If I had a nemesis, it would not be a person - it would be an activity. While generally a cheery person, any mention of running is enough to send my mood crashing down. Though I’ve always been considerably average at it, the feeling of my feet slapping across the concrete has always felt more like a slap across the face than a warm embrace. Much to my chagrin, come high school, I was shoved into an uncomfortable, ill-fitting P.E. uniform and forced to participate in weekly three mile runs. “It’s easy,” my teacher shouted haughtily from her chair, lounging in the shade, “Why aren’t you running faster?”
 

After surviving a year of Physical Education, I was determined to find an alternative. As a child, I played the typical introductory sports. My parents fondly recount my days as a star player on the Junior Lakers team at my local YMCA, circa 2004. I quickly realized that sports were not for me, however, and complained until I was enrolled in dance lessons.  Over the years, I grew to love the feeling of my bare feet on the studio floor, hair flying in and out of my vision, spinning, jumping, and breathing technique. Dance held all the benefits of running with none of the cons. That’s why it was no surprise to my friends that when I found out our school marching band had a color guard (who didn’t have to take P.E.) looking for dancers, I joined immediately. Even after hearing the horror stories about band camp and the mental and physical strain involved, I rationalized it in my head - “They’re just band nerds. How much can they take?”

Band nerds, it turns out, are some of the toughest people I have ever met. I had been warned by our band director on registration day that I might cry during band camp. (And I did.) I might go home and ask my mom if I could quit after day one. (I considered my options.) My body would ache - my feet would hurt and my legs would hurt and my brain might hurt too, but if I stayed it would all be worth it.

When I woke up on day two, I felt my joints creaking in indignation as I propped myself upright, but his promise kept me going. I dragged myself out of bed and to the football field nonetheless. Despite dreading the twelve hour days - the time spent standing at attention, the injuries, the horrific tan lines, the endless running suicide drills - I pushed on. I have never been a quitter and I was not going to let marching band beat me; I had too much pride.

Years later, I am infinitely grateful I didn’t quit. What they try to explain to you when you join is that band is truly a family. This promise seemed empty to me as I sat in a room of ninety-nine strangers, but five seasons later, it holds true. I joined band to avoid taking another year of P.E., with no intention to continue past the completion of my required credits, but I got stuck. Color guard is my passion; by my second year, I was experienced on spinning both flag and rifle, as well as my years of training in dance. I was named captain, and my color guard team has become so tight-knit that we do almost everything together. Band is all I could have asked for and more - a family, a support system, and a performance outlet.

      Ultimately, my plan failed. I still had to run. But maybe running isn’t so bad if it’s for a cause you’re passionate about with the people you love.