The water is calm. The sun beams through the morning clouds. The air is thick and moist. The only sound comes from our shoes. The rubber soles slapping the concrete sidewalk.

We've been running for 29 minutes. I'm tired, out of practice, out of shape.

Eight years of competitive running ended in early May with my final race as a Western Washington University Viking. I've been running since junior high. Once I reached high school, I was hooked. I trained all the time. Early morning runs. Afternoon runs. And sometimes, late night runs. I couldn't get enough. I was always running.

My obsession carried through to college where I ran cross-country and track for Western. I ended my college running career with two grueling races, a 10-kilometer and a 5-kilometer, in two days. My body ached after racing more than 9 miles in less than 24 hours. After that, I decided my body and my mind needed a break from the stresses of year-round training and competing. For a month, I barely ran.

Running has always been my stress reliever. The first week of Poynter was full of stressors - a new program, a competitive atmosphere, tons of deadlines, long hours, new people. I realized that running would be the only way I could unwind. I ran twice the following week. I wasn't used to the humidity or to being horribly out of shape. My asthma flared up which made running a constant struggle, but I needed to clear my head. I had trouble motivating myself to wake up early when I knew it would make my lungs burn, my chest tighten and my legs throb. It seemed like a better idea to just hit the snooze button.

Then one afternoon Tracy Boyer, one of my Poynter teammates, invited me to run with her. The next morning I woke up at 6:45, laced up my shoes and took two puffs from my albuterol inhaler. After 29 minutes of running, I realized what I already suspected. I was tired, out of practice, out of shape. Then Tracy said something that horrified me at the time.

"Do you want to pick it up for the last minute?"

Are you crazy? I thought. I can barely breathe. I definitely cannot pick up the pace now.

"Uh, sure," I answered.

I couldn't admit to Tracy that I was too exhausted to go faster. So despite the sluggish feeling in my legs, I picked up the pace. That one minute felt like five.

"You can't burn any calories if you always run the same pace," Tracy explained after we finished. "That's why I try to push myself at the end."

I could care less about burning calories. I don't run to lose weight, I run because my body has become addicted to it. I don't need to push the pace at the end.

Later that day I thought about what Tracy had said.

You can't burn any calories if you always run the same pace.

While it's true I don't care about calories or losing weight, I couldn't stop thinking about her logic for running faster at the end. For pushing yourself when it would be easier to stay steady and comfortable.

Later that day I was going through the editing process for my second story at Poynter. I wasn't excited about my story, but I didn't hate it either. I was indifferent. Like my first story, it was a profile piece. It was about a local church and its unique ways of appealing to adolescents.

Maybe Tracy had a point. How can you ever burn calories running the same pace? How am I ever going to improve if I keep writing these safe profile pieces?

Before coming to Poynter, it had been more than a year since I had consistently written for a publication. I was stale, out of shape, out of practice. I would never improve if I allowed myself to stay complacent with my profile stories.

The staleness and complacency of my writing gnawed at me as I began reporting for my third story. This time I was determined to try something new. I had taken numerous journalism classes that stressed the importance of finding one person's story in order to shed light on a larger issue. I always knew of the technique. I always ignored it.

When I took on a story about the lousy real estate market in Pinellas Point, I wanted to test my reporting and writing skills the way Tracy's last-minute sprint tested my legs and my lungs. I didn't want to just tell the story. I wanted to tell it in a new way. I wanted to push past my comfort zone. I found Jenny Heath, whose Florida home has been on the market for seven months, and let her tell the story of financial hardships during a real estate lull. I was winded by the end of the effort.

The following week I ran into blockades as I tried to write about a local transitional housing shelter. I changed the focus of my story multiple times. At first I planned to write about the house closing down and the impact on the community. I wanted to challenge myself. But I felt overwhelmed by the setbacks with the story. I was mentally prepared to tackle one story, but not necessarily to have to fight just to get to the story.

Roadblocks are not new to me. In eight years of running I've had two stress fractures, numerous shin splits, strained hip flexors and enough nagging injuries to make anyone want to throw in the towel. Instead, I gave my injuries time to heal and bounced back stronger.

I was about to call it quits on my story about the shelter. I was on deadline and didn't think I could face any more setbacks and still have a story to turn in. Then I thought about that morning run with Tracy.

You can't burn any calories if you always run the same pace.

Instead of slowing down, I picked up the pace. I found three men living in the house and explained each man's struggle through a broken narrative. I had never tried this writing technique and was intimidated at first. I was tired of being complacent and found a different way to write an otherwise bland story. Despite being stale, out of practice and out of shape, I found another gear, a new way to write.

As my time at Poynter comes to an end, I'm left thinking about all of the lessons I've learned during these intense six weeks. Jacqui Banaszynski's class about writing structure was valuable, and Roy Peter Clark's classes about writing tools were insightful. But the one thing that will stick with me the longest is realizing that I had let myself become complacent and did something to change it.

With running I would never settle. I always wanted to be faster, stronger and tougher than everyone else. I would never let myself become stale in my running. That June morning when Tracy challenged me, I wouldn't let myself back down. It didn't matter that I hadn't run in more than a month, I would find a way to pick up the pace. It didn't matter that it had been more than a year since I had written for a publication. I had to find a way to move out of my comfort zone. Run away from complacency.

You can't burn any calories if you always run the same pace. That's why I try to push myself at the end.


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