If running is going to continue to grow in popularity we must move with the same mutual purpose and collective effort as the giant centipede at the Bay to Breakers Race. We must spread the joy of sweat. We must become the evangelicals of endorphin enjoyment. We must sermonize about the wonders of stamina and galvanize others with the actual joy that can be found in glycogen depletion.

But we first must address a problem within our own ranks. We've successfully combated imposters like Rosie Ruiz who determined that crossing the finish line of a marathon is just a tad easier when you jump into the race at mile 24. Modern ingenuity has given us everything from computer chip technology to energy bars with flavor other than burnt cardboard. We've even eliminated the 40-pound pair of rain soaked cotton sweat pants with the arrival of waterproof running suits.

But there's a bigger problem beyond the twelve-minute miler sneaking to the front of the starting line to rub elbows with the elite and causing a 62-body pileup when the gun goes off.

I'm talking about the thing that does more to deter the neighborhood "My middle name is Easy Chair" non-exerciser from joining the ranks of the running converted. It is appearance that's keeping some folks away. It is not the fear of putting anchor size thighs in spandex running tights nor is it the panic that racing singlets are a required accessory. Instead, it is the appearance of anguish they see from a few of us.

We can preach until we go into oxygen debt about the ability of running to feel like the lightness of motion without effort. The fact remains that some non-runners have been erroneously educated. They have viewed those among us whose running style would be best entitled the Unbearable Heaviness of Breathing. Those whose facial grimaces resemble one who has been sucking on a lemon for six weeks straight while running barefoot on hot cinders with red ants in their shorts. Suffice it to say these runners aren't exactly exhibiting a look of genuine joy.

Their grunting and groaning simulates a cross between a wounded donkey and a hyperventilating hyena--all the while sounding like they are twelve yards away from full respiratory arrest.

Their running style is to accentuate every step with a less than delicate earth shattering foot plop and stare at the ground as though receiving continuous encouragement to keep their feet moving in a forward direction.

It's not that they enjoy their running any less than others do or are necessarily in poorer condition than, shall we say, the more agile and fluid runners. It's just they haven't necessarily found the groove. The rhythm of the run. The jig of the jog.

We must help them for, unintentionally, they're singing to others a bad rap. Their minds may be thinking this is "Fun, fun, fun" but their bodies appear to be saying, "I wish I were done, done, done." They look as though they are actually plowing through the pain of stress fractures in every joint below their navel.

We must loosen them up. Unhunch their shoulders. Uncork their squinting eyes and furrowed brow. Stifle their bellowing gasps and lighten their foot plant for we are all united members of the Pied Pipers of Running Recruitment.

But wait a minute. On the other hand, perhaps we should just leave them alone. Maybe they are the best procurers of new runners. That's it. It is reverse running psychology they are employing. Their running style may be attracting others with its awkward rhythm as it says, "We welcome one and all." Maybe, they have indeed found their comfortable cadence and dance to the beat of a different runner. Hmmm.

I guess we need not try to change the appearance of the gaspers among us. What's good for the gazelle may not be good for the plodder. Perhaps the runner's recruiting motto is more appropriately voiced as:

"Give me your heavy footed, your less than nimble.
Your couch potatoes yearning to be in shape.
The woefully inactive in their reclining chair.
Send these, the apprehensive and uncertain among us.
We'll guide you joyfully into your comfortable running groove!"

That's it. One person's grinding gait is another's graceful dance. To each their own. For to thine own sole be true.