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Assistant Sports Editor Margaret Banks, inspired by the women’s running network Janes on the Run, decided in late October to take on the half-marathon portion of the N.C. Marathon in High Point on March 20. She’s charting her feelings of inadequacy as she struggles to become a “real” runner on her blog, Running Scared. Here are some excerpts.

Nov. 2

As is common in this age, my life conspires against routine — from my job (newspaper editor) to my disposition (lazy). If left to my own devices, I am a Generation X’er from Central Casting: unmotivated, sedentary, drawn to fatty foods, prone to long periods of intellectual dormancy, easily satisfied eating pizza while listening to Nirvana and tinkering with my iPhone. Here I am now; entertain me.

The race — actually the training for the race — is my way of rebelling against those instincts.

I’ve made progress in the last 18 months, losing enough weight to equal your average 9-year-old. I did it the old-fashioned way: I counted calories, ate more fruits and vegetables and, most recently, gave up all grains but the brown, whole kind. I ran 5K races, hiked scores of miles in the woods and played some pretty mediocre tennis.

A half-marathon is bigger. It requires consistency and commitment. And while I’m trying to stay positive, assuring myself that this is possible, doubt creeps in.

I am running scared. But I am running.

Nov. 5

Every year, when we’d get assigned textbooks on the first day of school, I’d engage in something I now know to be masochism: I’d flip to the back of the spelling or math book — where the biggest words and most complex problems were located.

I would reach an immediate conclusion: There is no way I will ever be able to do this work.

By day’s end, I would be sobbing on my bed, refusing to accept Mama’s and Daddy’s explanation: By the time you get to that part of the book, you will have learned a lot of things, and it won’t seem so hard.

“No!” I would cry. “I won’t be able to do it!”

And so it goes with this half-marathon training. I won’t receive my official training plan for a few weeks, but I have glanced at some programs online. It is daunting. The miles build and build — the running equivalent of asking a third-grader to spell “superfluous” and perform calculus.

All around me, the smarter kids are breezing through 10Ks and logging weekly mile totals that sound like a number Lincoln tossed out in the Gettysburg Address. Meanwhile, I’m hoofing it through Country Park, wheezing, struggling to spell “butterfly” and figure out 9×5.

Nov. 21

RUNNING REPORT

Number of runs this week: 4

Total miles: 13.5

Longest run: 4.5 miles

Aches and pains: Surprisingly few, though I do sound like the Skipper (from “Gilligan’s Island”) every time I stand up. Ooooof.

Highlight of the week: A particularly wonderful stretch Saturday on the Lake Brandt Greenway. Cool breeze, The Raconteurs singing in my ears, nary a soul in sight. Felt like I was the only person on the planet.

Lowlight of the week: Being outrun by a couple of 4-year-old girls on the indoor track at the Y.

Most coveted running gadget: A hand-held clicker that will track my indoor laps. And perhaps a water gun to take out those swift-footed girlies.

Days until half-marathon: 119

Half-marathon outlook: Guardedly optimistic. Today’s the first day this thing has felt possible. The last month of running has allowed for astronomical improvements in my speed, my endurance and — I must be getting soft to admit this — my attitude. I no longer always feel like an interloper in some exclusive running club. I just feel that way some of the time. And that’s an improvement. Or maybe that’s the endorphins talking.

Dec. 1

Gym bag surprise of the day: Mismatched running socks. No, not just mismatched. They weren’t even of the same species. It was as though a turtle and a giraffe were trying to board the Ark as a pair.

How I overcame adversity: I said, “To hell with it! I shall run in mismatched socks, and run I shall. For I am immune to your scorn and derision, John Q. Public.” Unfortunately, I said this out loud in the women’s locker room at the Bryan Y, thereby creating new adversity.

Laps around indoor Y track: 30

Miles: 3.0

People who seemed to notice my mismatched socks: Zero

Dec. 12

Admission: I am a cold-weather weenie. Running in the bitter cold is the feel-sense equivalent of hearing nails on a chalkboard or Don Henley’s “Sunset Grill.” It ouches.

Which is why, this morning, I bailed on my 7:30 a.m. half-marathon class with Janes on the Run. It was in the 20s, for crying out loud.

I did not bail on running. I got in my 3-miler this afternoon at the comfortably-heated Y, wearing a running skirt and a tank top.

It made me feel a tad guilty, the thought of my running sisters out there, bundled in their subzero gear, while I slept (and sleep I did, with a nice, warm kitten snoozing on my side).

The truth is I don’t have my act together enough to join the other Janes.

Theoretically, I can layer up in thermals, running tights and sweats as easily as they can.

Realistically, that ain’t happening.

My gloves? Haven’t seen them in two winters.

My running tights? Heaped in a pile of dirty laundry.

That little thing that keeps your ears warm? God only knows where it is — probably buried by a mound of dust bunnies under a bed.

Hell, the only reason I was able to wear a clean tanktop to the Y was because I raided the summertime clothing drawer. And for the sake of storytelling, let’s just assume that tanktop was clean.

These are the things that threaten to derail me. Not the actual running, but not being prepared for running. Running requires a level of Type A behavior I do not possess. And it’s easy to get overwhelmed by that stuff and forget what really matters: Running makes me healthier.

Here’s the silver lining, which I found behind the refrigerator when I was doing my turn-of-the-decade cleaning: I didn’t use my disorganization as an excuse not to run. I worked around my quirks, which is probably the best possible outcome for someone who is 42 and deeply committed to never changing.

Dec. 27

Drove to the park for a 3.5-miler today, sans earbuds for my iPhone. HUGE mistake.

It wasn’t just about the music, either. Don’t get me wrong: A playlist is a crucial part of my running success. It can make or break a workout.

But there’s more. Music blocks out the sound of me running — all awkward rhythm and wheezy breaths. I don’t want to be reminded of that. They are not sounds of a strong, powerful runner, which is how I prefer to imagine myself.

I’d been wondering why people I pass from behind on the trail always sense when I’m coming. Thought maybe my music was bleeding through the iPhone, announcing my arrival.

No. It’s because I sound like a herd of women in the final throes of labor using their Lamaze training: He he HO. He he HO.

So from now on, spare pair of earbuds go in the glove box. Because the last thing I want is more Margaret time.

Jan. 6

Was talking to a friend today, a hard-core runner who has pounded the pavement for 45 years and maintained the body of a 30-year-old. We were talking about the half-marathon, and my slowness therein, and I overheard myself say:

“I absolutely do not have a problem with coming in last,” I told him. “Absolutely. None. No problem.”

Oh, I have a problem. I have a huge problem. Who wants to be last? No one wants to be last. Last stinks. Last reeks. Last is last.

This self-esteem-wrecking thought is not just possible but likely.

If you take my pace per mile from, say, yesterday’s 7-miler (13:45), project my time for a 13.1-miler (3 hours, 15 sec), and then check the results of last year’s half-marathon … well, I ain’t coming up first.

You know how in sitcoms people sit up in bed gasping and sweating after they’ve had some horrible-yet-hilarious dream (at least in your better sitcoms)? I’m so last I haven’t even done that yet.

Of course I cannot admit this in conversation. Noooo. I pretend to be all Zen about it: “I am just enjoying the journey, and the strength and freedom I am getting from working toward my goal.”

Baloney. I’ve been needling my 67-year-old friend Jim to run the half-marathon with me just so I don’t come in last. What kind of friend exploits a slow-moving retiree? I’ll tell you what kind: the kind who doesn’t want to come in last.

So to recap: I tell fanciful, elaborately-constructed lies to anyone who will listen. Enjoy!

Contact Margaret Moffett Banks at 373-7031 or margaret.banks@news-record.com