Had you asked me five months ago, why I decided to run the Crescent City Classic, New Orleans’ annual 10K road race, my answer would have been simple: “Why not?”

Due to the success rate of my many ideas that begin this way (i.e. “Why not start my own karaoke bar?” or “Why not forego college and join Cirque du Soleil?”), I didn’t really expect to follow through with it.

But I was surprised by how impressed people became when I told them my plan.

It seems there’s a certain respect people pay someone training for a road race that someone trying to, say, script “Blossom: the Movie” just won’t achieve.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I actually run on a regular basis.

Still, running 6.2 miles at 8:30 in the morning is asking a bit much.

So, I found myself in a bit of a bind when confronted with the reality that I would probably have to follow through with this.

While claiming that I was going to run in the race was a great conversation piece and (I assume) made me look pretty darn cool, I figured this could all change if I didn’t actually do it.

So, last Saturday morning I set off to run all 6.2 miles of the 25th Classic, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say I loved every minute of it, I at least enjoyed the minutes I haven’t already mentally blocked out.

My running partner tried to keep me motivated by telling me that the first mile is the hardest one, the one before you hit that “runner’s high.”

She had a point, but make no mistake, that last mile is pretty bad… and in fact, I can almost say the exact same thing for the ones in between.

The combination of the seemingly endless route and the heat can be discouraging.

There even came a point during the race when it occurred to me: “Wait a second, what are we all running from?”

I happened to have liked where I was at the starting line.

Sure, I was a waste of space and nowhere near the finish line, but I had also felt no pain there; I wasn’t soaked with sweat, I was hydrated, and I could still feel all of my limbs.

It was nice.

Only as I neared the finish line did I find that it wasn’t what we were running from, but where we were running to that was important: a free party at Tad Gormley Stadium, where the runners could enjoy all the free music, jambalaya, ice cream and beer that truly make up the breakfast of champions.

So I pressed on – not quite knowing why, but not getting enough oxygen to my brain to honestly care – and finished the entire race in less than an hour.

But instead of asking for congratulations, be it in the form of a pat on the back, money or otherwise (although I’d feel rude turning it down), I would just like the success of my latest conquest be a lesson to all.

As the semester winds down and finals begin, don’t ask yourself, “Why put off studying just to watch another ‘Trading Spaces’ marathon?” ask yourself, “Why not?” instead, and dare to dream.